


Don't Tell My Dads I'm Engaged to a Werewolf

by sarahandthegraveyardshift



Series: Don't Tell My Dads [4]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Character Death, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied Peter/Chris, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 14:46:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5379017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarahandthegraveyardshift/pseuds/sarahandthegraveyardshift
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles wants to be married before he goes away to school. Derek insists there's no rush, that the teen should be concentrating on finishing his senior year and building his class schedule for his first semester. But Stiles has his reasons. The biggest of which is that he wants to be married before it's too late.</p><p>Now all he has to do is plan...and, you know, build up the courage to tell his dads.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sweater Weather.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my goodness!!! Here we are again!!! In a new part!!! I'm so excited to see you!!!
> 
> I'm not even gonna lie. You look amazing. With your hair and your face and your beautiful eyes. Just LOOK at you, for heaven's sake. I can't even. You're too gorgeous. Stop it.
> 
> I'm really super-duper excited to get this next part up and running!!! I can't wait to show you all what's in store for your favorite pair (whether it's Derek and Stiles, Dean and Cas, Sam and Gabe, or WHOEVER). It's gonna be a bit rocky at the beginning, I have to warn you, but I promises PROMISES (check these hands) I'll make everything okay in the end. I may throw angst around like it's nobody's business, but if I've invested in something for this long, you better believe there's gonna be a happy ending when all is said and done...
> 
> Perhaps not in this part, since it is the fourth of a five part series (I mean, there's gotta be some darkness before the light, am I right?), but HAPPINESS WILL PREVAIL!!! I ASSURE YOU!!! 
> 
> Now, sit back, relax, READ, and enjoy!!!! :D :D :D

Stiles resisted the urge to roll his eyes as his dad, yet again, fussed with his jacket. 

“You're sure this will be warm enough? Washington has a relatively cold climate,” Castiel murmured, turning to Stiles' Pop. “We should have gotten him something warmer. I think I saw one of your old jackets in the trunk.”

“Dad,” the teen said, forcing a smile amidst his exasperation, “this will be fine. _I_ will be fine. I'm gonna miss my flight.”

“I still don't get why you want to fly up there,” his Pop groused, shifting uncomfortably as his gaze roamed over the airport terminal just outside the security checkpoint. “You know Gabe could get you there with a snap of his fingers.”

“It's Spring Break,” Stiles explained for possibly the hundredth time. “I want just _one_ normal experience before I go off to college.”

Stanford. 

As if that had been a hard choice.... Well, it almost had. MIT and the University of Pennsylvania had both sent acceptance letters, and Yale had promised him a spot on the waiting list. On top of that were about seven other letters from smaller schools, all close to home. But in the end, Stanford had just felt like the right decision.

Uncle Sammy had practically cried, promising to go with him on a campus tour over the summer (for reminiscent purposes more than to show him around). Dad and Pop couldn't have been more proud—and relieved, to be honest. The school was little more than a two hour drive from home, which meant that Stiles could drive home almost every weekend, if he wanted to—and, of course, he would want to.

In light of recent events, however, his parents were still a little anxious. And Stiles couldn't blame them. He was anxious himself...just for different reasons.

Stiles wanted to be married before he went away to school. Derek insisted there was no rush, that the teen should be concentrating on finishing his senior year and building his class schedule for his first semester. But Stiles had his reasons. The biggest of which was that he wanted to be married before it was too late.

Don't get him wrong, he had an enormous amount of faith in his friends and family. They would do whatever it took to keep Azazel's prophecy from coming about. But the teen could also feel the pull of it—the want, the _need_ to find the demon and surrender himself. The more the feeling sat, the more it began to fester and permeate his very bones. He wanted, more than anything, a life with Derek...but the longer they waited, the more it felt out of reach.

Stiles had demanded a date be set two weeks before his first day at Stanford.

Now all he had to do was plan...and, you know, build up the courage to tell his dads. 

“Of course,” his dad said, dragging him from his thoughts. He smoothed invisible wrinkles from Stiles' jacket one last time before sighing and nodding his content. “Just be careful.” 

“Call us when you land,” his Pop added, the nervous tint to his eyes speaking volumes about his fear of flying. “Derek's picking you up from the airport?”

“I will. And yes.” Derek and the rest of the pack had driven up a few days ago while Stiles had finished some last minute projects for school and made sure everything was squared away with Stanford. 

“Washington,” his Pop muttered. “You sure you guys didn't want to head down to Florida?”

The Hales owned several small cottages in Bremerton, which was a short ferry ride from Seattle. “Yeah,” Stiles said as sarcastically as he could muster, “let's stick a bunch of teenage werewolves in a densely populated area this close to the full moon. I'm sure that'll make VH1 _very_ happy.”

His Pop huffed and rolled his eyes. “I've seen worse on public television...Is VH1 even still a thing? How do you know about that?” 

“Have fun,” his Dad said, ushering him gently towards the checkpoint. Stiles smiled gratefully and turned, offering one more wave before he was out of sight. 

The smile and relaxed demeanor he'd faked for his parents disappeared, and his shoulders dropped. If only this were going to be a normal Spring Break...

0 o 0 o 0

Dean and Cas smiled until Stiles was through the checkpoint and out of sight. The hunter's arm fell from the angel's shoulders, and they each took a small step away from one another. The rift between them had started months ago, when Dean had found out Cas had known about Stiles from the beginning, had started this fucked up little family to keep tabs on his growing power. 

Cas didn't see it that way, had begged Dean over and over again to see that there was nothing fake about their family, about how much they loved Stiles...and each other. But Dean had been sleeping on the floor of their bedroom since Christmas, keeping up appearances around Stiles. They planned to tell him during the summer, hopefully with enough time for him to adjust to the fact before he went off to college.

They had tried. But they wouldn't be a family anymore.

Cas swallowed and took a breath to speak, but Dean beat him to it, looking at a point over the angel's shoulder rather than at him. “I'm staying at Sam and Gabe's for the week. I'll be back to get Stiles from the airport.” 

“Oh,” Cas said quietly with a nod. “Dean—” 

But the hunter was already turning away, disappearing into the crowds of people being reunited and saying goodbye. His chest hurt. It felt like he'd left his heart there in Cas' hands, and now all that was left was this gaping wound that would never heal. Every waking moment for the last two decades had been spent with the angel, and he was still so desperately in love with him that he could hardly stand to look at Cas. 

There was still something, though, that almost made him turn around and go back...Memories—of all the times Cas had stayed by him no matter his faults, of all the times Dean had screwed up so ridiculously only to have the angel tell him it was okay. 

_Everything's okay..._

He found the exit and kept walking.

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles didn't hate flying as much as his Pop did, though it wasn't the greatest experience ever—the flight was barely a couple hours. He had a whole row to himself and sat in the middle seat the entire time, leg bouncing as he blared music through his earbuds. 

Derek was not the one to pick him up from the airport. But that had been planned. As much as Stiles wanted to see his fiance, it would completely defeat the whole purpose of this trip.

As Scott's tired, relieved face came into view at the baggage claim, it was all he could do to keep himself from hugging his best friend. They gave each other strained smiles and shifted with the awkwardness of not being able to touch one another. 

“Hey,” Scott said, already holding Stiles' massive suitcase. His Dad had packed it for him. 

_Sweaters._

_So, so many sweaters...._

“Hey, man,” Stiles said, his eyes prickling. He was already having trouble with the lack of contact. Maybe he should have hugged his parents a little longer. 

“You ready?” Scott asked, angling himself towards the parking garage entrance. 

Stiles sighed and nodded. “Yeah. Let's get out of here.”

0 o 0 o 0

It would take half an hour to get to the cabin. The drive was just as awkward as their meeting at the airport, mostly because Stiles had to sit in the back. 

Peter's instructions for him had been very specific. The last week without the pack had been spent scrubbing himself of their scent entirely. New soap. New clothes. New bedsheets. 

Stiles had told his dads that he was just breaking in some new stuff for college. The worst part had been stuffing all his favorite articles of clothing (stolen from a certain werewolf fiance) into the back of his closet. The anxiety had piled up so much he'd almost given in. But Peter's voice in the back of his head—and wasn't that just great—kept him grounded. 

So he'd scrubbed away their very existence, made himself belong to no one, and sat in the back of the rental car Scott was driving. His best friend kept glancing at him through the rearview mirror.

“Dude,” Stiles sighed, nose scrunching at the new car smell, “this is fucking weird.”

“Yeah,” Scott agreed, face going pensive. “I mean, not that you smell _bad_ or anything, but dude...”

“I smell wrong,” Stiles huffed. He didn't even have werewolf senses and he could tell everything about himself was just _off_. 

“Yeah,” Scott repeated, quiet and kind of distressed.

Stiles swallowed. “Hey, after this is over, you and the pack can totally hard-core scent me, okay?”

Scott looked at him in the rearview mirror again, puppy dog eyes hopeful in a way any normal person's wouldn't be at the mention of _scenting_. “Yeah?”

“Definitely,” Stiles promised, and his friend's shoulders dropped in relief. 

“Okay.”

The rest of the drive was quiet, save for the tunes Scott cranked through the stereo. The scenery was pretty, the trees just breaking free of winter's hold and beginning to bud. The woods became denser the further they drove from the city, seeming to press in on the car. 

Stiles could feel a headache start at the base of his skull, and he winced as a sharp pang of nausea hit his stomach. 

“You okay?” Scott asked as the trees suddenly opened to a gravel path, which the teen turned onto at a more controlled speed. 

“Yeah, just feeling a little sick all of a sudden.”

Scott swallowed, brows furrowing. “You know we don't have to do this today, right? Derek wants to wait until tomorrow.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and fought another wave of nausea. “He would,” he muttered, shaking his head. “That's just more time I have to spend apart from you guys and from Derek. And I'm pretty sure all of you would lose it before I did.”

Scott grunted but didn't respond with anything more as the cabin came into view. It was a good-sized cabin, eight bedrooms and five bathrooms. It was the main cabin that Derek and his family had stayed at when they traveled north. And it was well-kept. It looked recently-painted, the color a deep, rich mahogany. A garden extended from one side and stretched along the front, splashes of different colored tulips lining the porch. Stiles remembered Derek saying they had four others, smaller but still decent sizes and all within running distance of each other but far enough away for privacy. 

There were three other cars. One was Derek's Camaro, the black tint standing out against the brightness of the woods surrounding them. Even more out of place was the second car, a model Stiles wasn't even sure was released yet in a deep burgundy color; too expensive to be anyone but Peter's. The last car was Allison's, the least conspicuous vehicle out in the wooded area.

“I'll move your suitcase into Derek's car,” Scott offered, thankfully aware that they wouldn't be staying at this God-awful place once everything was done.

“Thanks, man,” Stiles said absently, taking a deep, shuddering breath.

Boyd, Erica, and Isaac were visible first, standing like a row of body guards in front of the porch steps as they pulled up. Stiles stepped out of the car, seeing Jackson, Allison, and Lydia on the porch. All of them had that same itch in their gazes that Scott had had at the airport—the need to rush forward and touch, claim, scent. The werewolves, especially, looked anxious. 

“Hey, guys,” Stiles said, trying to keep the exhaustion from his voice and failing miserably. 

Isaac was the only one who almost caved, stepping forward and making a broken noise when Boyd grabbed his arm and held him back. 

Stiles offered as reassuring a smile as he could as he walked past them and up the porch steps. He wanted to say something but knew if he opened his mouth, all that would come out were sounds just as grief-ridden as Isaac's had been. He opened the screen door, turning and looking at each of them before pursing his lips and opening the main door of the cabin. 

0 o 0 o 0

Derek heard the rental car long before it was in sight of the cabin, and judging by how his pack stiffened outside, they did too. It had been a long few days getting things prepared for Stiles' arrival. Hell, Peter had already been here several weeks, trying to make headway with the task Derek had asked of him. 

_Several Weeks Ago:_

_“I need you to find someone,” Derek said, eyes narrowing as his gaze bounced back and forth between Peter and Chris Argent. The older of the two Hales had apparently been hiding out at the hunter household since his reappearance in Beacon Hills several months before._

_“Anything for you, dear nephew,” his uncle said with a vicious smile. “Who is it you would like me to find?”_

_“I need information on a demon named Azazel,” Derek said, frowning when Peter raised an eyebrow at him. “And I want you to get someone close to him.” Peter opened his mouth to speak, but Derek cut him off. “I don't care who. And I don't care how. But I need them alive and detained as soon as possible.”_

_Peter narrowed his eyes. “And what then?”_

_Derek's gut clenched. “I'll let you know when you have them.”_

_“Pretty vague there, Derek. Not giving me a lot to go on.”_

_“I've seen you do more with less,” Derek said snidely, gaze flickering to Chris. The hunter shifted uncomfortably._

_“So that's an order then, is it?_ Alpha _?” Peter growled the last word, and Derek felt his eyes glow an angry red._

_“It is,” he ground out, clenching his teeth and storming out of the Argent's kitchen without another word._

Present:

Peter had delivered. More than Derek had been hoping for, actually. He had managed to find a werewolf by the name of Lawrence Caden. “Lowrey” to those who knew him well (and there were few). Peter had found him at some seedy bar off a rarely used highway, drunk on wolfsbane-infused tequila and mumbling about the end of the world. 

Azazel's name had slipped out more than once.

Lawrence was a key member of the demon's inner-circle, knew all kinds of dirty little secrets that would make a grown man's skin crawl. Or so he claimed...It took Peter very little effort (flirting) to get him talking (drunkenly babbling), convince him to leave (sling an arm over his shoulder and drag his sorry, drunk ass from the bar), and take him home (fuck him all night in a shitty, nearby motel). 

Drugging him and getting him to the cabin had been a breeze. Maybe a little _too_ easy. But they had taken precautions. Demon traps and protection sigils that Gabriel himself wouldn't be able to step past—which was kind of the point. If Stiles' uncles or, God forbid, his parents thought the teen was in danger in any way, this whole thing would be for nothing. 

Derek focused on Stiles' heartbeat as the rental parked outside—fast, thready. He was nervous. Afraid. Maybe they should rethink—

The doorknob turned, and Stiles entered. 

Derek's crossed arms bulged, both because he wanted so badly to pull the young man to himself and because he couldn't quite believe how much a few days apart had changed the teen. He looked worn down, tired. 

Derek took a step forward before he remembered himself, immediately regretting the action when Stiles gave him a pained look, closing the door behind him. 

“Stiles,” the older man said, the name intended to be a greeting but sounding needy and choked. He glanced his mate up and down in disapproval. “You look...”

Stiles sighed and rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. “I'm just tired.” The teen's stomach rumbled, and he flushed with a forced chuckle. 

“When was the last time you ate?” Derek demanded, his anger spiking as if the noise had personally offended him. It almost kind of did. Stiles was supposed to be taking care of himself. This was...unacceptable. 

Stiles raised a hand, face taking on a look of exasperation as if getting ready to placate the werewolf's sudden outburst, but then Peter walked in, disrupting the tension. 

“No time for that, I'm afraid,” he sighed, though it sounded more out of annoyance than sympathy. “We have to get this ball rolling. The longer we wait, the less likely it will work.” 

Derek growled but said nothing. His uncle was right. They were pressed for time. 

“Okay,” Stiles said, taking a deep breath and releasing it in a shudder. “What now?”

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. “You have to do this,” he told the stoic man in front of him. “He won't believe it's real unless you do this.”

“I don't want to,” Derek said petulantly, mirroring Stiles' stance and grinding his teeth.

The teen winced at the sound and sighed. “None of the others will, and even if they did, you'd resent them for the rest of forever, whether it's for the greater good or not.”

“Hitting you is not for the greater good,” Derek protested, crossed arms tightening. "Scarring you, bruising you, is not for the greater good."

Stiles swallowed and squared his shoulders. “Today, it is.” He closed his eyes and tensed. “Derek, please just...hit me.”

He heard a whine come from the man in front of him and resisted the urge to open his eyes and roll them. There was a silent pause that had Stiles' stomach twisting into knots before a sudden rustle of fabric, then blinding pain erupted across his cheekbone.

He fell with a muffled grunt as his teeth broke through the skin of his bottom lip, and there were hands immediately on his shoulders, squeezing. “Stiles? Shit, this was stupid. This was a fucking stupid idea. Why the hell did I listen to you?”

The teen blinked a few times, feeling the muscles in his face twitch and burn. “I'm fine,” he said, pushing the man off of him and standing slowly.

“You're not,” Derek growled.

Stiles laughed and winced as the action pulled at the sore parts of his face. He ran his tongue along the top row of his teeth, tasting blood but feeling nothing loose. Good. He didn't need to worry about dental bills after this. “That was far from your best,” he said, straightening and facing the man once more. “Okay. Again.”

Derek looked horrified.

“He's not gonna buy one little bruise. Hit me again. Maybe a couple more times. Draw some blood. Get your claws out.”

Derek strung his fingers through his hair and turned away from the teen, muttering a few choice words under his breath before looking back at him. He looked pained, like he was the one being hit instead of Stiles. “Your dads are going to kill me.”

Stiles smiled widely. “Probably.” He laughed again at the frightened look that crossed Derek's face. “I'll protect you, Big Bad Wolf. Now, come on. He's gonna wake up, soon.”

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles held his breath and stepped out of the small room he'd been allowed to change in. He felt...gross. Seriously disgusting. 

Peter had made him run for-freaking-ever around the small cabin until his sweat and nasty B.O. had formed a decent enough mask over his own scent and created the illusion of not having showered for weeks. He'd had to rub dirt and grime from the basement floor all over himself, smear it on his face and into his hair, down his bare chest and over stiff jeans that clung to him in ways he hated and smelled of mold and piss. _His_ piss, which was an entirely different grossgross _gross_ matter that he really didn't want to go into. Ever.

So as he stood under the scrutiny of two Hale werewolves, he tried his best not to squirm the way his Adderall-withdrawn mind was telling him to. Peter walked right up to him, leaning in close and inhaling deeply. 

“Not a trace of you on him,” he said over his shoulder to Derek, his nose scrunching at the pure rankness Stiles knew he was emitting. “This might just work.”

Derek grunted, though he didn't come any closer to Stiles, which hurt. The teen knew, of course, that any sort of contact with Derek could ruin this whole thing, any trace of his scent on Stiles' clothing or skin, other than the faint one meant to be left by the “beatings,” could set them back to square one with absolutely nothing. But Stiles ached to touch his mate and really wasn't looking forward to having to pretend to be someone else's, if only for a little while.

“The rest is up to you, Stiles,” Peter said, gently drawing him out of his own head. Stiles looked up at him, and Peter stared expectantly. “ _You_ have to make him believe. Deaton's serum will only do so much to modify his mind. He has to wholly think that you're his mate, and that we're going to hurt you if he doesn't tell us what we want to hear.” The man's eyebrows rose questioningly. “Can you do that?”

Stiles drew a breath in through his nostrils and released it shakily through his mouth, swallowing hard and nodding with purpose. “Yeah. I can do that.”

Peter nodded, too, a tight smile taking his lips as he stepped back. “Good,” he said. “Remember to stay calm. Keep your heartbeat regulated. The serum will divert his senses to remembering who you are, creating false memories of you and him, so he probably won't be as focused on listening for deception...but best not to tempt it, hmm?”

Stiles nodded again, trying his best to regulate his heartbeat even as he stood there. He wasn't entirely successful.

“Stiles,” Derek said sternly, gaze centered on the young man and, really, only making the situation worse, “you need to calm down.”

“What the fuck do you think I'm trying to do?” Stiles snapped, eyes closing as soon as the words left his mouth. He hadn't meant to say that.

“Derek, maybe you should...be elsewhere,” Peter said, subtle as always.

Derek's jaw clenched, but he moved away from the wall he had been leaning against and stalked towards the hallway that lead to the kitchen. 

“Derek,” Stiles said, his voice dry and raspy—he hadn't had water for hours and thirst was creeping in like crazy. Derek stopped, turning his head but not fully, not looking at Stiles. “I'm sorry.” The teen received barely a nod in response before the other man was out of sight.

Peter stepped towards him, and Stiles pressed himself into the wall at his back, watching curiously as the older man, suddenly, held up a water bottle, the last mouthful of water sloshing at the bottom of it as he kept it just out of reach. It made the teen's tongue swell just to look at it. 

“Now,” Peter said smoothly, teeth bared in a sickening smile, “how badly do you want this?”

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles stared down into the dark basement from the top stair just inside the door. The windows were boarded up, letting in just enough sunlight for the teen to make out a figure slumped against the far wall. Thin streams of light glittered over the silver chains that bound the werewolf to the concrete. It wouldn't be easy to break those bonds, but if something went wrong and he was able to...

“You can still change your mind,” Derek said at his shoulder, and Stiles stifled a snort.

“I pissed my pants for this, Derek. Pretty sure I'm all in.” He turned then, offering his mate—his real mate—a small but genuine smile. “Where should I, uh... _be_? When he wakes up?”

Derek hesitated, looking past Stiles into the dark. “Where would you be if it were me?” he asked finally. 

Stiles didn't answer, but nodded in solemn understanding. He would be at his side, of course. Arms wrapped around him, keeping him warm and safe, breathing every breath with him, pressing his ear to that chiseled chest to make sure his heart kept beating. 

He would stay with Derek to the end.

And that's what he had to do here. Or, at least, make a werewolf believe that he would. 

No big deal.

He dragged in a steadying breath and started down the stairs slowly, careful to shift his weight when the boards began to creak under his feet. He didn't need all this work to have been for nothing if the Alpha—freaking _Alpha_ , as if that weren't terrifying all by itself—woke before they'd even been allowed to start. Derek's shadow enveloped him, and he concentrated on it as he descended further and further. It felt like hours before he reached the bottom, and when he did, when the soles of his feet brushed cold concrete, the door above closed with a gentle click, and he was thrown into darkness.


	2. Someone New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don't let them take me again,” Stiles whispered, letting fear leak into the words and trembling as Lawrence pulled him closer. “Lowrey, please. Please, don't let them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, look at you!! You're looking mighty fine and dandy today!! I do hope you're feeling well and that your day has been especially on the good side. :)
> 
> Yay for a new chapter!! Like I said, this one is possibly one of my favorites, thus far. And I certainly hope you like it as much as I do!! :D Enjoy, my friends!!

Stiles breathed the musty scent of dirt and dust in for a moment, letting it fill him, coat the walls of his lungs. His eyes adjusted slowly to the dark, and as they did, he took a few cautious steps forward. Feet padding softly against the ground, he made out the lump on the floor that was Lawrence. 

_Lowrey_ , he reminded himself, huffing a small breath and taking the last few steps to close the distance between them. Peter and Derek had already scent-marked the werewolf with Stiles' clothing earlier, so the teen knew his scent would be a familiar one. Even asleep, Lawrence was breathing it in, familiarizing himself with it. At least that's what Derek had said. Hoped. Things could go south very quickly if Stiles wasn't able to convince this Alpha that he belonged to him.

Lowering himself to the ground, he took a breath and held it, making the decision to scoot in close to the werewolf and drape an arm around him. Lawrence jerked slightly, and it took all Stiles had in him not to cower away, but the man stayed asleep. Relief swept over the teen, and he found it easier to press himself forward against Lawrence as the cold began to sink into his skin. The werewolf was, unsurprisingly, warm, and Stiles was grateful for it. 

He didn't have to wait long. It was maybe fifteen minutes before the man began to stir, and Stiles stirred with him, having nearly dozed off himself. It had been a long couple of days. Had he really been back in Beacon Hills only that morning? Saying goodbye to his parents and promising to call when he landed? Had he called them? He couldn't remember...

A puff of hot air against his neck brought him out of his thoughts, and he was quickly turned onto his back, squashed by several pounds of hothot _hot_ muscle. Lawrence was heavy and tall and broad. Derek hadn't mentioned any of that. The teen watched as two red slits appeared in the dark just above him, the werewolf's eyes narrowing and probably scrutinizing the trembling body beneath him. There was a deep, angry growl, and Stiles pulled in a breath he tried to keep from turning into a gasp, reaching forward with a shaky hand but refusing to hesitate when the growl grew in volume. 

“Lowrey,” he rasped, swallowing and breathing harshly as his fingers strung through greasy, long hair. The growl dissipated into a confused humming, and Stiles persisted, reaching out with his other hand and boldly cupping the muscle between his neck and his shoulder. “It's me,” Stiles said as soothingly as he could. “It's Robby.” It was his middle name—Robert, after his Uncle Bobby. Peter had said that the key to successful lying was adding in a bit of truth. 

“Robby,” Lawrence rumbled, deep voice trying the name. It vibrated in Stiles' chest, and he shivered. It sounded... _right_. It sounded like this man had called him _Robby_ since he could remember, like whatever Deaton had cooked up to make Lawrence believe he and Stiles were mates was slowly leaking into the teen, too. It made this whole thing easier. But Stiles didn't want to get too comfortable, didn't want to fall into the lie too easily. 

Lawrence surged forward, suddenly, and Stiles lifted his chin, closing his eyes tightly as the werewolf pressed his nose to the skin of the teen's neck and inhaled deeply. Another rumble vibrated through the man's chest, this one Stiles recognized as a noise of approval, and they both relaxed a little. Stiles let his hands roam a bit, the fingers of his right hand fisting the hair at the nape of Lawrence's neck and his left reaching to knead the skin between the werewolf's shoulder blades. 

Lawrence groaned appreciatively, shifting on the floor until he was able to fit himself between Stiles' legs.

 _Oh shit_ , Stiles thought. That had definitely not been one of the scenarios they'd discussed. 

Before Stiles could stop him, Lawrence had covered his mouth with his own, rough tongue delving past the teen's lips and sliding along the roof of his mouth. Stiles gasped and released a small whimper when Lawrences's hips rutted forward, fingers clenching into broad shoulders. There was a small creak from the top of the stairs, and Stiles saw out of the corner of his eye the shadow of someone's feet beneath the door. 

“Lowrey,” he whispered, biting his lower lip to stifle the sound bubbling up his throat as the werewolf rutted against him harder. He could feel the bulge in Lawrence's pants growing larger, and _damn_ was this man hung. “Lowrey, they're...upstairs.” That halted the werewolf's actions, and he pushed himself up slightly with a disapproving grunt, relieving the pressure crushing Stiles into the concrete beneath them. They breathed harshly, Stiles' fingers playing idly with the man's stringy hair. Lawrence turned towards the door, the sliver of light from beneath it letting Stiles see the werewolf's face for the first time. 

His breath nearly caught in his throat. Lawrence was... _fucking gorgeous_. Shit, if they'd just let Stiles see him before any of this had happened, he would have had absolutely no reservations about this. Stiles cupped Lawrence's cheek, turning the werewolf's attention back onto himself and pulling him down to fit their mouths together again. 

_Waitwaitwait. Nonononono._

_Derek._

_Derek!_

Lawrence grunted, pulling back and resting their foreheads together. Their breath mingled between them, hot and stale. They stayed like that for a long moment before the werewolf lifted his head and looked around, glowing eyes scanning the darkness. 

“Where are we?” he asked finally. 

_Dear Lord._

_He has a fucking accent._

Stiles resisted the urge to roll his eyes because this was a test. This was most obviously a test. Derek wanted to see if his loyalty held true. There was no way in hell someone this hot was working for the other side. Absolutely no way.

“I-I don't know,” Stiles said, nervous now that the actual acting part had presented itself. He'd gone over the basic story they were feeding Lawrence with Derek and Peter, but he was pretty much on his own when it came to answering questions. They couldn't possibly predict everything he'd ask.

_Or do, apparently._

“I woke up here with you. You were...” Stiles took a breath and closed his eyes, picturing Derek's broken, bleeding body cradled in his shaking arms to create a valid response. He shuddered and opened his eyes again, blinking away the sting behind them. “You were hurt. So badly. I was scared.” 

Lawrence ran a hand through his hair soothingly, pressing lips to the teen's temple. “It's okay, Robby. I've got you.”

Stiles relaxed into the man's touch. And what the hell was _that_ about? Were Derek and Peter sure this man was working for a demon? “I...I hear leaves crunching on the ground when they leave,” he said, nuzzling his cheek against Lawrence's. Why was this so freaking easy? “I can smell the earth when it rains.” He sighed, eyebrows drawing together as a wave of tiredness overtook him. “It rains a lot here.”

Lawrence shifted, his glittering eyes roving over Stiles' face. “How long have we been here?”

Stiles shrugged as best he could while pressed against the man, swallowing thickly before answering. “Weeks, I think. I lost track. They drug you so they can take me and....” Stiles let his sentence die off, let the monster's brain fill in the blanks with his own horrible thoughts. It was a low tactic, something Stiles hadn't been altogether for, but Peter—ever the North-bound point on the moral compass—had said it would be the best way to get a rise out him.

“Take you and what?” Lawrence persisted, grip on the teen tightening. 

Stiles shook his head emphatically, drawing in a labored breath. “It doesn't matter.” Lawrence growled deep in his throat. “It doesn't! Lowrey, listen to me....” The name was getting easier to say, like it was finding a place on his tongue and nestling in. It made him uncomfortable, but Stiles continued, letting the new development play into the act. “They want information. About Azazel. And...that kid.”

“Stiles Winchester,” Lawrence growled, and Stiles shivered. He'd never heard his name said like that before. The chains clapped to the werewolf's wrists made an awful scraping noise against the concrete. Lawrence looked at them like he hadn't noticed them before then looked down at Stiles again. “You aren't chained.”

“They have people,” Stiles explained, eyes flitting to the windows just as shadows passed by them—Scott and the others, keeping their ears open no doubt, “patrolling the house. And I couldn't... I couldn't leave you.”

Lawrence sighed and pressed his face into the crook of Stiles' neck again. “You should have run. They'll get what they want, now. If they hurt you, Robby...” 

Stiles shivered, wrapping his arms around the man and curling against him as best he could. 

_So warm. So warm._

“Don't let them take me again,” he whispered, letting fear leak into the words and trembling as Lawrence pulled him closer. “Lowrey, please. Please, don't let them.”

“I won't,” the werewolf promised sincerely, his grip tightening. “I won't.” Stiles felt guilt in the pit of his stomach. This wasn't right. _Something_ about this wasn't right. 

There were footsteps above them, and then the door to the basement opened, releasing a flood of light. Stiles and Lawrence hissed, the werewolf pulling Stiles off the ground and pushing him into the wall that he was chained to, blocking the teen with his body. Stiles couldn't see but heard the footsteps on the stairs—Derek and Peter. Mostly he heard Lawrence's heartbeat, loud and strong and safe...

“Take him,” he heard Derek say stoically, and Stiles began to panic, his heart rate sky-rocketing. In less than a second, Lawrence was pulled away from him, the werewolf growling low and fighting weakly. His body was probably still ravaged with the wolfsbane sedative Peter had been giving him for a week now. Stiles was momentarily blinded by the assault of light again as his shield was removed, and then suddenly there was a hand on his upper arm, tugging him roughly to his feet. 

The teen yelped, instinct kicking in as he lashed out. His fingers connected with skin, and he scratched and punched, wrenching his arm away and falling back to the floor. He tried scrambling back to the wall, breaking a couple of fingernails in the process, but a hand wrapped firmly around his ankle, and he cried out again. His heart was pounding in his ears, matched only by the angry growling of Lawrence, who was struggling against the wall but unable to break Peter's hold on him. 

Peter.

It was Peter holding Lawrence. 

Which meant it was Derek holding his ankle. Derek dragging him across the floor. Derek who had to be the one to pull those awful sounds from him. 

_Awful. Awful. Awful sounds._

Stiles screamed. His throat was raw and his cheeks were wet with tears. Snot bubbled from his nostrils, and as Derek dragged him across the floor towards the stairs, his throat began to close. Panic took over, blacked out his vision, made him scream for the only person he could think to scream for. 

“Lowrey!” he cried desperately. Derek stopped as they reached the bottom of the stairs, picking the teen up with little effort and slinging him over his shoulder to start up to the first level of the house. Stiles dragged in a tight breath and screamed as achingly as he could. “Lowrey, you promised! You promised! Don't let them take me! Lowrey!” He coughed as he choked on his own spit. 

He could vaguely see through the tears that Peter had released Lawrence, was starting up the stairs after them, and that the chained werewolf was now straining against his bonds. His eyes were glowing, his mouth open and teeth bared as he roared at them. Stiles scrabbled against Derek's back with one hand, fingers fisting the fabric, and reached out in Lawrence's direction with the other, his cries starting to dissipate as he pretended to become resigned to his fate.

“Lowrey,” he squeaked in one last effort, giving the man the most desperate look he could muster. 

There were measures after this one that they had discussed taking if Lawrence wouldn't submit at the mere thought of what they might do to Stiles. Derek was loathe to hit him again, but Peter's suggestion had been...Well, sex. And don't get Stiles wrong, he _loved_ sex. Sex with Derek was the best thing, like, ever. But sex with Derek while having to make sounds like he was being raped...was not so enticing and would probably scar all of them for life.

So this was basically it. And if Stiles wasn't able to convince him—

“Wait!” Lawrence shouted, the basement seeming to rumble with the word. 

Derek, foot on the topmost stair, stopped, turning his head. Peter turned around completely, crossing his arms and doing as the werewolf said, seemingly impatient.

“I'll...” Lawrence wrenched against the chains defeatedly, huffing angrily through his nose. “I'll tell you what you want to know. Let him go, and I'll tell you. Everything.” He gestured to Stiles, the red slowly leaking from his eyes.

The teen shook his head. “Lowrey, don't—”

“Quiet,” Derek growled, the word harsh enough to vibrate through Stiles' abdomen and make him whimper.

Peter turned his head, giving Stiles a languid once over. “Guess our fun can wait for just a moment.” The words made the teen gag, and Derek's grip on him tightened just slightly. “And he is, Lawrence. So much fun.” Peter drew the vowels out slowly, grabbing Stiles' chin and squeezing. 

Stiles shook his head from the grip, clenching his eyes closed at the laugh Peter let loose while Lawrence fought against his chains again. 

“He goes free,” Lawrence demanded. The teen could hear the Alpha in his voice, felt it sing through his veins as if he were _his_ Alpha. “And I will tell you what you want to know.”

There was a beat of silence before Derek huffed through his nose. “No,” he said bluntly, and Lawrence snarled. “You give us the information. _Then_ he goes free.”

The chained werewolf breathed raggedly, nostrils flaring as his gaze flickered back and forth between their “captors.” He settled on Stiles, who swallowed and drew his eyebrows together pensively, shaking his head just the smallest bit. His heart raged against his ribcage, pounding so hard he was sure it was deafening in the ears of the werewolves around him. 

“Fine,” Lawrence seethed, “but he stays with me until we're finished.”

Derek and Peter exchanged a look, and Stiles' hands tightened their hold on Derek's shirt. He was getting tired of holding himself up. 

“He stays upstairs,” Derek decided, but Lawrence roared, the noise so loud it shook dust from the rafters. Stiles cried out; it was actually _painful_ to hear it, to hear the rage behind it. Rage meant for him. 

For the _idea_ of him.

“He stays with _me_ ,” Lawrence reiterated, his tone dangerous. Stiles had heard that same tone in Derek's voice many times before. So much, in fact, that he'd become used to it, associated it with his mate. Was that what Derek sounded like when he was angry? When rage took hold so fully he could barely stop shaking? 

That was...terrifying.

There was another pause before Derek turned on the stairs, starting to descend. He gave a small, discrete squeeze to Stiles' side, and Stiles rubbed two small circles into his back, letting him know he would be okay. At the bottom of the stairs, Derek dropped him onto his feet; not hard, but rough enough to send a jolt up his shaky legs and throw him into Peter, who smiled lecherously and grabbed at his hips before shoving him in Lawrence's direction. 

The chained werewolf had open arms waiting for him, drawing Stiles' trembling body against him and holding him there for a moment. Stiles closed his eyes and let the warmth engulf him again, feeling a strange relief wash over his limbs the longer he stood there with Lawrence. There was a gentle pressure at his side, and then he was carefully being pushed behind the tall man. Guarded. Safe. 

He pressed himself against Lawrence's back, forehead resting between the werewolf's shoulder blades as he released shuddering breaths into the warm skin. 

“What do you want to know?” Lawrence said, his voice rumbling through his body and making Stiles' very veins quiver. 

“What does the yellow-eyed demon want with Stiles Winchester?” Derek asked, voice cold and distant.

Lawrence huffed and shifted on his feet. “You already know the answer to that question.”

“Yes,” Peter admitted, his footsteps loud in the dark room. Stiles could picture him pacing slowly around them, creating tension and unease. He was good at that. “But we want it confirmed. Maybe _Robby_ knows, hmm?” Stiles tensed, muffling his gasp against Lawrence's back. “Should we ask him? He hasn't been very verbal since we brought him here. That pretty mouth makes some nice moans and groans, though...I can see why you keep him around.”

Peter could be absolutely filthy when he wanted to be. He was good at it. Whoever had come up with the saying _Actions speak louder than words_ had obviously not predicted the existence of Peter Hale. Stiles was sure Derek was having an internal fit to keep himself from lashing out at his uncle. There would be words later. Or claws. Probably both.

Lawrence growled low in his throat, one hand reaching back to grip Stiles' side. “He wants the boy for his army. His power is foretold in the prophecy given to Azazel when he became a demon.”

“The prophecy was about Sam Winchester,” Derek said bluntly. “It's dead, unfulfilled.” 

Stiles held his breath. He knew what was coming next, had heard it from Karsen months ago...had kept it to himself.

“No,” Lawrence replied with a shake of his head. “Azazel was mistaken the first time. All signs pointed to Sam Winchester, but he was not the one my master was destined to control.” A shiver ran up Stiles' spine. “The prophecy lives.”

There was a long moment of quiet before Derek spoke again. “Azazel's army doesn't exist anymore. He pitted them against one another. If there were people lucky enough to escape, they hid themselves, started new lives.”

“There is a new army rising, one that my master started eighteen years ago.”

Eighteen. 

Eighteen years ago.

As in around the time Stiles was born. Or maybe no more than six months old...How had his biological parents died again? His Pop and Dad had said it was a monster; they'd been torn to shreds. Was that really what happened?

“How is he alive?” Peter asked, footsteps echoing as he began to pace again. “Dean Winchester killed him.”

“And Dean Winchester brought him back,” Lawrence said matter-of-factly, almost as if he were proud to tell the tale, “from Purgatory.”

Just like Stiles had brought Karsen back. He'd slithered his way inside and curled around his ribcage, whispering and squeezing until he just couldn't breathe anymore, until he'd thought that the only way _to_ breathe was to push away the one person that mattered most. Stiles understood now, more than ever, why his Pop had tried to find comfort in the arms of someone else. The guilt and the regret and the hopelessness had been overwhelming. The teen was grateful they had gotten past it—or about as past it as they could manage—but still felt the phantom pangs of what he'd done. 

“Like Stiles and the Leviathan,” Derek said in understanding. “What happened to him?”

Stiles shook uncontrollably, pressing himself into Lawrence's back as the memory of Karsen's death surged forward in his mind. The werewolf reached behind him and wrapped a steadying arm around the teen. 

“He has been dealt with,” he said simply. 

“Why hasn't the demon come for the kid himself?” Peter asked bluntly, his pace speeding up. “These lackeys of his aren't doing the job, so why—” 

“That _is_ their job,” Stiles said with the sudden revelation, wincing when the hold on him tightened. “Sorry,” he whispered, fingers kneading into the tense muscle at the small of Lawrence's back. 

“What does he mean?” Derek asked, voice tight. 

Lawrence sighed as if he hadn't planned on revealing any of the information he was about to tell them. “They were sent as a test.”

“To see what Stiles can do,” Peter said, but Lawrence shook his head. 

“He already knows what Stiles can do,” he admitted, which was disturbing because not even _Stiles_ knew what Stiles could do. “He wants to know if he's _ready_.”

“Ready to lead an army?” Stiles held his breath as Derek voiced the question. Because this was it. This was the big answer that even he wasn't quite sure about. 

Lawrence huffed in dark amusement. “Ready to take his place,” he amended, standing a bit taller and raising his chin. “Stiles Winchester is Azazel's son, heir to the throne of Hell.”

The air in Stiles' lungs stilled, and it took all his energy to keep from choking. 

_What? WHAT?!_

“How is that possible?” Peter asked, tone distant and small in the teen's ears.

“Azazel took possession of a human named John Stilinski the night of Stiles Winchester's conception,” Lawrence explained. 

Stiles' eyebrows drew together. Did it even work like that? Just because his biological father had been possessed and done the nasty with his wife, that meant that Stiles was half-demon? That made absolutely no sense. 

Well, neither did a hunter and a fallen angel shacking up together to raise a half-demon child. So maybe the fact that demon-human physiology was a complete mystery wasn't such a...mystery.

“When the child was six months, he sent a werewolf—my brother—to collect him.” Lawrence stiffened, his fingernails sharpening and scraping against the skin at Stiles' side. “He was able to kill the boy's parents before the Winchesters arrived.” He didn't go on after that, and Stiles felt an immense pain for him. His fingers curled around the werewolf's hips, and he rubbed his cheek against the man's right shoulder blade. 

There was a brief pause, and then Derek asked, “Is Stiles the only one?”

Stiles held his breath again. Shit, he hadn't even considered that.

“No,” Lawrence replied with a shake of his head, “but he was the first. He is the oldest of his siblings, the strongest.”

Siblings. Fuck.

“How many?” Peter demanded. Stiles wasn't sure he wanted to know how many kids out there were related to him. That was seriously fucked up. 

“Countless,” the chained werewolf said, his tone growing gruffer, impatient. “They will be part of his army. Stiles Winchester will lead them into battle. And then he will rule both Hell and Earth.” 

“Battle,” Derek repeated the word solemnly, like it weighed heavily on his tongue. “Against who?”

Lawrence snorted, his fingers splaying wide on Stiles' side. “Everyone,” he said matter-of-factly, like it should have been obvious. Really, it should have. Who else would Hell wage war against? Certainly not Heaven. Not yet. But maybe once it had control of Earth, the place in between both realms, it would have the numbers to take Heaven on, as well. Stiles couldn't even imagine what that would be like—didn't really want to. “I have answered your questions. You will uphold your end of our bargain.”

Stiles' heart rate sky-rocketed, his grip on Lawrence tightening as he whispered, “No, no, no, no,” into the man's muscular back. “Lowrey, please...Don't let them take me.”

“Of course,” Peter said, his tone overly-pleasant and completely unconvincing. “We'll take the little lamb where ever his heart desires.”

Lawrence turned, adjusting the chains so that he could hug Stiles to him and whisper in his ear. “You know where to go.” Stiles nodded. He didn't know, for obvious reasons, but the werewolf didn't need to know that. “Stay safe...I love you.”

Stiles clenched his eyes shut, tears tracking down his cheeks. They burned. He'd cried himself raw already. Over...this man? This person he didn't even know? He couldn't stop the words that followed. “I love you, too.”

Lawrence bent down, capturing his lips in a deep, intense kiss. Stiles parted his lips, let the man's tongue clash with his own. He strung his fingers through Lawrence's hair and tugged, wanting more. Wanting more and more and more. It was supposed to be a last kiss, right?

The growl from Derek was expected but made Stiles stiffen nonetheless. He broke the kiss and panted into Lawrence's mouth for another moment before the large werewolf was turning and ushering the teen towards the staircase. Stiles swallowed and shuffled his way past Peter, who leered at him, then Derek, whose face was impassive except for the glint of something fierce in his eyes. As he reached the bottom step, he turned, offering Lawrence one last glance before Derek's fingers were gripping his upper arm and practically dragging him up the stairs. 

He twisted his neck uncomfortably when they reached the top, making eye contact with Lawrence one last time and watching Peter use the distraction to stick the werewolf's neck with a wolfsbane sedative. Derek slammed the door to the basement shut, fingers releasing their grip on Stiles' arm immediately before he was wrapping the teen in a tight hug. Stiles couldn't find it in him to return the gesture. 

“Are you okay?” Derek asked quickly, hands rubbing Stiles' back and arms. When the teen didn't respond—couldn't respond—he stepped back, hands on his shoulders. “Stiles?”

“I...” Stiles swallowed, breaths coming harshly and heart beat pounding in his ears. “I need to change.”

Derek's eyebrows furrowed, but he nodded, gesturing towards the living room. The teen turned and walked rigidly to the sofa, where a clean pair of clothing was folded and waiting for him. He stripped quickly, shivering when the clothes hit the floor with a heavy _thwap_. They were dirty—so very, very dirty. Not that he still wasn't dirty, but the lack of clothing made him feel strangely better. 

He'd pulled on his boxers and his jeans before Derek tried talking to him again. “Stiles—” 

“Did you get what you needed?” Stiles asked curtly, pulling a t-shirt over his head and following it with his flannel button-up, then a hooded sweatshirt. The cold was still there in his bones, settling in the grooves of his spine and forcing him to shiver.

The basement door opened and closed, Peter appearing around the corner with a nod as he leaned against the wall behind Derek and crossed his arms. “Yes, we did,” he said, eyebrows drawn together in a not-Peter fashion. “You were...exceptional, Stiles. Very convincing.”

Stiles nodded, expression as slack as he could make it, though his hands trembled as he adjusted his hoodie. “Good,” he said. “We can go, then?” He was heading towards the door before he received an answer. He stopped, though, before he reached it, turning and finding Derek only a few paces behind him. His gaze settled on Peter, Stiles shifting anxiously and hands flexing at his sides. “Don't...kill him. Okay?”

Peter arched an eyebrow at the teen, shrugging one shoulder. “Hadn't planned on it.”

Stiles' lips tightened, and he huffed through his nose in exasperation. That meant absolutely nothing in Peter-speech.

The older werewolf rolled his eyes like it was the most annoying request he'd ever had to endure. “Fine. I won't kill him. Cross my heart.”

Stiles stared at him a moment longer before turning, shoving the screen door open, and stepping out onto the porch. Scott was the first to lope over to them, feet kicking up dead leaves.

“Stiles?” he asked tentatively, his eyes wide and uncertain.

“He doesn't—” Derek started to say from over the teen's shoulder but Stiles held up a hand, dismissing the words and quickly descending the porch steps to fall hard into his best friend's arms. He buried his face and just breathed for a moment, Scott's scent warm and familiar. 

“I'm okay,” he assured the other teen, who was whining low in his throat. “I'm okay, I promise.” There were other hands on him, then—his back, his sides, his hips. His pack crowded around him, shuffling into his space and creating a calm haven that he never wanted to leave. 

But there was more to be done.

Stiles sighed and began to pull away, Scott grunting with disapproval but slowly loosening his grip. 

“We'll see you tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, sniffling and nodding with a tight smile. “Breakfast. Bright and early.”

Scott smiled, too, his shoulders losing their stiffness as he nodded back. The group reluctantly shifted so that he could make his way towards Derek's car, but not before he'd made eye contact with each of them, giving them a reassuring look.

He didn't look at Derek, though. Couldn't. Not yet.

0 o 0 o 0

They'd been driving for only ten minutes before Derek's fingers tightened on the steering wheel. The teen could feel the tension rolling off of his fiance in waves, knew there was an outburst itching just beneath the werewolf's skin. He curled himself further into the seat, leaning towards the passenger side door as casually as he could.

“How much did you know?” Derek asked, voice quiet but firm. Stiles closed his eyes and pressed a tightly clenched fist to his lips. “Stiles.”

“Some,” the teen admitted, dropping his hand and resting it on his bouncing knee.

“Which parts?”

Stiles breathed slowly, trying to calm his anxious nerves. “Derek, what the hell is going—” 

“Answer the question.” Shit. It was Derek's Alpha voice. He was _commanding_ Stiles to give him an answer. Did Stiles really have to? It wasn't like he was a werewolf. But he was still pack, still Derek's mate. If he didn't, would there be consequences? Punishment? Would he lock Stiles up again? “Stiles!” 

The teen turned to the man to find utter disbelief on his face. Oh. He must have been babbling. About anything. And everything. Whatever happened to pop into his mind. He couldn't help it. His mind was practically exploding with thoughts, feelings. Confusing feelings. Good feelings. Feelings not necessarily directed towards his mate.

The car was stopped, pulled to the side of the road.

“Derek,” he said, breathing ragged as his gaze wandered to the stick shift between them. He couldn't look the man in the eye. Not now. Maybe not ever again. But why? “What...” He leaned forward and put his head between his knees as a wave of nausea washed over him. “What's wrong with me?”

“What do you mean?” Derek asked dumbly, and Stiles wanted to reach over and hit him.

“I _mean_ I can't...I can't be in this car with you. I can't look at you. I don't want you _near_ me,” the teen said desperately, shaking his head as if the thoughts would just disappear and everything would go back to normal.

Whatever _normal_ was, anyway.

Derek sighed, leaning back in the drivers seat and putting both hands on the steering wheel. He squeezed it several times before taking a short breath and saying, “Peter...dosed you.”

Stiles' eyebrows drew together. “Dosed?”

“I didn't know until you'd already gone downstairs,” the older man explained quickly, as if that were the answer that Stiles wanted. 

It wasn't. It so, so wasn't.

“With _what_?” Stiles asked, things beginning to click in his head until he'd figured the answer out before Derek could tell him. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit. That serum? The one you guys gave to Lowrey?”

“Lawrence,” Derek corrected absently, rubbing at his face. “He said he wanted your emotions to be authentic. He didn't think you'd be able to pull it off on your own.”

“Really loving the vote of confidence, here,” Stiles snapped, breathing deep and starting to rock a little. “So...how long is this supposed to last?”

“It should be wearing off by now,” Derek said with some concern. “It probably just needs some more time.”

Stiles punched the dashboard. “Yeah. Great. In the meantime, I'll just pine away for someone else, huh?”

The werewolf sighed in frustration. “Stiles—”

“No,” the teen interrupted, tugging at his seat belt restlessly. “Do you have any idea? At all? This is fucking _torture_. Because I know I love you. I _know_ I love you, Derek. But there is something in me that wants you to turn this car around and drive straight back to him.” His fingers clenched the fabric of his hoodie in a death grip. “I _want_ him. More than I can remember wanting _anything_ in my life.”

“I know,” Derek said calmly. “It's okay.”

“It's _okay_?” Stiles asked indignantly. “It's _okay_ that I want to jump another guy's bones? Let him fuck me into next Tuesday? I'm sitting here admitting freely that I want another man, and you're just... _okay_ with it?”

“It isn't you,” Derek said, though the words were strained. “The serum was designed to make you want him, to make you think you're his mate.”

“I kissed him,” Stiles said, eyes wide and gaze focused on the windshield. 

“Stiles, please...”

“I wanted him. He was strong and powerful and gorgeous, and I wanted him to keep grinding against me,” Stiles continued, not entirely oblivious to the claws starting to inch their way out of Derek's fingernail beds but unable to keep the words from bubbling past his lips.

“Stop.”

“Fuck, Derek, I'm half-hard right now just _thinking_ about—” 

A growl vibrated through the car, and Stiles immediately pressed himself against the passenger side door, eyes shut tightly and shaking hands against his ears. He heard the sound of Derek's door open, heard the crunch of leaves as he walked away, as he paced restlessly. Stiles was almost afraid he was going to pull him from the car, throw him to the ground and leave him there in the woods, but when the pacing came no closer, he chanced opening his eyes. 

Derek was angry. Like, _angry_ angry. And why wouldn't he be? Stiles was sitting there smelling like another werewolf, talking about another werewolf, _wanting_ another werewolf. Derek probably wanted to tear Lawrence limb from limb. The very thought of it made Stiles sick.

Seriously sick. Shit, he was going to throw up. 

Stiles scrabbled for the door handle, tugging it desperately and wrestling with his seat belt until he was falling face first into dirt and leaves. 

“Stiles?” Derek called, his voice still more of a growl than anything. 

The teen scrambled forward to a nearby tree, bracing himself against it with his left hand as his stomach churned and emptied itself onto the ground. Stiles felt a hand at his back and tensed, tears streaming down his face. He gagged long after his stomach had nothing left to give, and sat back on his heels when the heaving had stopped. Derek was at his side, concern lacing his features. He ran his fingers through the teen's hair gently, and Stiles closed his eyes.

“Are you okay?” The words were quiet, calm.

Stiles shook his head, chin trembling as his throat tightened and new tears formed in his eyes. He turned, pressing his face into Derek's shoulder, and cried for several moments while the older man rubbed circles into his back and made soothing noises in his ear. 

“I...” Stiles started, having to swallow and take a shuddering breath. “I want it to go away. This...feeling. I want it gone.”

Derek sighed. “It won't be there much longer. Peter said he only used a drop. It will wear off soon.”

“And Lowrey...Lawrence...” Stiles could barely say the name without a sharp sensation stabbing at his chest. “Will he remember?” 

_Remember me?_

“No. The sedative Peter gave him will wipe his memory of the last day or so. He won't remember.” 

Stiles cried harder after that, telling himself it was because the whole ordeal was over and not because it made his heart ache.

0 o 0 o 0

Derek was right. By the time they'd reached the second cabin, the feelings for Lawrence had completely disappeared. And been replaced by an overwhelming guilt. Stiles tried apologizing, opened his mouth several times to tell Derek he was sorry, but the words wouldn't form on his tongue. After the fifth or sixth time, Derek sighed and told him to forget it. 

Stiles couldn't. Wouldn't. But he didn't try to apologize again.

0 o 0 o 0

He took three showers. The first because...well, he freaking reeked, obviously. The grime coating his skin took nearly a whole bar of soap to get off. His hair still felt greasy even after half a bottle of shampoo, and the scalding water left him feeling warm and raw but no less dirty than he had been before.

The second shower was because the moment he stepped out of said _first_ shower he was ravished by a certain werewolf mate that made him all sorts of a different kind of dirty—a good sort of dirty, but a dirty nonetheless. 

A dirty that involved rutting and grinding and _please Derek please please please make me yours again_. Which Derek did—biting and licking and fingering and thrusting and kissing and kissing and _kissing_ until Stiles thought his mouth might fall off. 

The third shower was long after Derek had fallen asleep, arm slung over the teen in a protective hold, which he'd slipped out of easily. Stiles spent a good hour of that one scrubbing his skin and muffling his choked sobs into a washcloth—because even though Derek had promised him he didn't smell of Lawrence anymore, had marked every inch of skin to make sure of it, Stiles still felt the foreign scent marring him, making him...unclean.

Inside and out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I sorry that I ended this chapter that way? ... Not especially. A little angst goes a long way, my friends. And, trust me, there's more to come. :P Thank you so much for reading!! I'll see you all in the next chapter!!


	3. Hold Onto Me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're all going to die. And I'm going to kill you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh goodness. My good update streak is already broken. I'd planned to have this chapter up for Christmas. :/ I guess you can all count it as a New Years present, then. :3
> 
> My, you're looking lovely in this brand new year! I bet you're making good choices and doing good things and just being so gosh darn amazing, and I think that's wonderful! Whatever you plan to accomplish in 2016, I believe in you! A new year means a new start, and it's never too late to start something.
> 
> Be great!  
> And have fun!

Stiles dreamed. 

Awful, terrible things. Watching his friends fall one by one, calling his name before they collapsed into heaps of dust. And Derek.

Derek was there, but he wasn't dying. He was killing. He was taking Karsen's head off with a sickening _crack_. 

“No!” 

He was grabbing Lawrence and shoving him to the ground. 

“Stop!”

His eyes were red, and he spared the teen a numb look before baring his fangs, extending his claws.

“Derek, don't!” 

He growled deep in his throat before tearing into the other werewolf, splattering blood and bits of flesh all over the dark basement floor. 

“Lowrey!”

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles woke. 

He knew immediately that he'd shouted the name aloud in his sleep. His throat was raw, and tears stained his face. And there was no way Derek hadn't heard that. 

The teen turned his head on the soft pillow, expecting to see confusion and anger and disappointment. But he was met with...nothing. Derek wasn't there. In his place, there lay a note. 

_Went out to get supplies._

_Be back as soon as I can._

_I love you._

Stiles sighed and rubbed at his face, feeling the urge to start crying again. Something scratched at his cheek, and he lifted his hand to find the ring Derek had given him on his finger. Derek must have put it there while he'd been sleeping. It was surprisingly calming, just the feel of it. He breathed in and released a shuddering gust of air, folding his arms over his head and trying to push the last day's memories out of his mind. 

“Interesting.”

Stiles groaned and sat up in bed, glaring at the man who stood across the room leaning against the wall. “What do you want, Peter?”

“Obviously not the same thing you do,” Peter said, straightening and making his way around the bedroom. “Missing your faux-beau already?”

Stiles closed his eyes and fell back against the mattress. “Just...get out.”

“But I'm worried about you,” Peter said, tone mocking. “And as your future uncle-in-law, it's my duty to make sure you and Derek stay disgustingly happy.”

“No. It's not.” Stiles turned onto his side and curled into himself, shivering as he burrowed further beneath the covers. 

Peter sighed, and Stiles felt Derek's side of the bed dip as the older man sat back against the headboard.

“Derek's worried about you,” he admitted, and the teen opened one eye, glowering at him suspiciously.

“He tell you that?”

Peter huffed. “He didn't have to. Every time he looks at you, the guilt of seeing you suffer comes off him in waves. It's exhausting to watch.”

“No one told you to get involved,” Stiles muttered, hiding his face and trying his best to wish the man away. 

“Yes, well, you see how _well_ that's worked out for everyone here,” Peter said, shifting on the mattress. “The point is that out of your moody little brood, I am probably the _least_ biased about this entire fiasco. So...”

Stiles waited, frowning as Peter wrestled with the words he thought he needed to say. 

“You can talk to me,” Peter finished, seeming put-out by the offer. 

And Stiles hesitated. Because it was true, what the man said about him being unbiased. All his friends would try to fix him, would listen but tell him not to worry. Peter was an asshole. But he was an asshole who told the truth as it was. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you want to listen to me?”

Stiles could practically _hear_ the eyeroll. “I don't,” Peter said bluntly. “But who else are you going to whine to about your pre-wedding jitters?” Stiles huffed. “I doubt your friends and family are top of the list for that conversation.”

The teen sighed and uncovered his head, refusing to look at the man as he began to talk. “I don't have any jitters.” Peter hummed in response. “If I could marry Derek _today_ , I would.”

“But Derek doesn't want that.”

Stiles looked up at the man. “No. He doesn't.”

“Was he the one that insisted on a ceremony?”

“Yeah.”

Peter smiled almost fondly. “Still Talia's son.” He gave Stiles a rare, sentimental look and drew in a slow breath. “Ceremonies, in general, are big in the Lycan community. We have them for almost anything. Some packs use them all, some pick and choose, some make up their own. They're meant to be celebrations of our history, our past and future. Talia was very dedicated to keeping ceremonies a part of the Hale pack. If Derek wants a wedding ceremony...” He trailed off and gave the teen a meaningful look. “It's just something very important to the Hales.”

Stiles stayed quiet for a long moment before drawing in a shaky breath. “I knew,” he said, swallowing hard and closing his eyes again. “I knew a lot of what Lawrence told us yesterday.” 

“I figured you did,” Peter said matter-of-factly. 

“None of the really big stuff. Like...being Azazel's son. And having siblings.”

It was still a little difficult to wrap his head around those particular facts. 

“Assuming he was telling the truth,” Peter said. 

Stiles opened his eyes and raised his head. “You think he could have lied? Without you and Derek being able to tell?”

Peter shrugged. “I think he was drugged out of his mind and could have told us you were a Martian without his heart skipping a beat.” The man pursed his lips. “But I also think that with all the information he has about you and Azazel, he shouldn't have been so easy to find.”

The teen shuddered. “You think...Azazel let him be found?” Peter nodded thoughtfully. “And what? Let him tell us a bunch of lies to freak us out?”

The older man frowned at that. “Not necessarily,” he said slowly, which Stiles found annoying. The man could switch opinions faster than a werewolf could outrun a human. “The best way to tear the enemy apart is from within—and what better way than with gruesome truths?”

Stiles felt his heart rate start to climb. “So I'm really the son of a demon. _I'm_...a demon.”

“Half-demon,” Peter amended. “I remember reading about half-demon children in the Beastiary. They were killed off at one point because they had all the perks of demon power without being detected _as_ demons. Kind of brilliant, actually.” Stiles made a disapproving noise. “Can you imagine it? A whole army of moody teens and tweens with unstoppable power. Demon traps, holy water, exorcism spells—none of those would have any advantage over them. They'd be just human enough to evade every textbook solution.”

“This really isn't helping,” Stiles said.

“How could you not want that?” Peter asked, looking at him almost accusingly. “All that power being dropped in your lap. How could you say no?”

“Simple,” Stiles said with a roll of his eyes. “ _No_.”

“You can't tell me the thought hasn't crossed your mind.”

Stiles hesitated. It had. A few times. Usually right before he fell into fitful dreams, when his mind was caught between sleep and awake. He imagined wielding that much power, watching the world crumble beneath his feet. 

He didn't like it...

But he sort of did?

Stiles took a steadying breath. “That's why I have to marry Derek,” he said quietly. “So I can be happy. Just for a little while. Before...”

“Before what?” Peter prompted when the teen didn't continue. 

Stiles' gaze snapped to the older man, and he felt his body go cold and numb as the edges of his vision blurred and darkened. “Before I have to kill you all.”

Peter's face went pale, and he stared at Stiles with wide eyes until the sound of the front door opening and several rowdy werewolves stumbling into the cabin echoed in the tense quiet. 

“Stiles! Get up! We're hungry!” Erica yelled from downstairs. 

Stiles broke his gaze away from Peter's and sat up slowly, stretching and yawning as if he had just woken up. 

“Fuckin' werewolves,” he muttered, sliding out of bed and pulling on a pair of sweatpants and one of Derek's t-shirts.

“Heard that!” Isaac yelled. 

“Yeah, yeah,” the teen said, turning to where Peter was still sitting on the bed. “Coming?”

Peter's eyebrows rose, and he cleared his throat. “Yes. I'm coming.”

He didn't follow too quickly, though, unable to get the image of Stiles' eyes turning pitch black out of his head. 

0 o 0 o 0

The next few days were a blur of blissful mornings and restless nights. Stiles felt the stress of school melt from his bones. And at the same time felt the burden of his nightmares fill his veins with lead. 

“You all right?” Derek asked sleepily, arm tightening around Stiles' waist as he shifted against the teen's back in their bed. 

“Yeah,” Stiles said absently, wide eyes plastered to the wall. 

Derek sighed, warm breath puffing at the back of the teen's neck. “Lie.”

Stiles huffed and swallowed. “Yeah. Lie,” he confirmed, turning until he was facing the older man. He smiled as their eyes crossed, being so close and trying to stare at one another, then moved back a few inches to better see his fiance. 

 

“Nightmares?” Derek asked, reaching up and brushing the younger man's unruly hair from his forehead. He pressed a kiss to Stiles' temple and nuzzled his stubbled jaw into the crook of Stiles' neck.

“Sort of,” the teen said breathily, wrapping his arms around Derek's broad, muscular shoulders and holding tight. “I don't wanna go.” 

“Mm,” Derek agreed. “You could put off going home one more day, couldn't you?”

Stiles shut his eyes tight. “I don't wanna leave.” His breath hitched. “I don't...wanna leave.”

Derek lifted his head. “Stiles?” But the teen just squeezed tighter, burying his face in the man's collarbone.

“Hold onto me,” Stiles sobbed, unable to keep himself from shaking. “Derek...please. Hold onto me.”

Derek did. And Stiles cried until he fell asleep.

0 o 0 o 0

“I'll see you in a few days,” Derek said, hands gently sliding along Stiles' shoulders and down his arms to rest just above his elbows. 

“A few days,” Stiles repeated dazedly, mind still foggy from his lack of sleep. 

A muffled voice stated something over the airport PA, and Derek looked at him expectantly. 

“Stiles?”

“Hm?” The teen blinked and shook himself. “What?”

“Your flight's boarding. You should go,” Derek said carefully, eyebrows drawn together in worry.

“Right,” Stiles said, nodding and staring in the direction of the security checkpoint. “Right.”

Derek sighed and pursed his lips. “Just...try to get some sleep on the plane. And call me when you land.”

“Sure,” the teen replied absently.

“I love you.”

Stiles did focus then, finding Derek's bright eyes staring at him with what the younger man could only describe as an intense concern. “Sorry,” he said.

One corner of Derek's mouth quirked. “You're sorry that I love you?”

 _Everyday_ , Stiles' mind supplied, but the teen merely smirked and said, “No. I'm sorry I'm being spacey.” He wrapped his arms around Derek's middle and hugged him tightly. “I love you, too.”

Derek kissed him, slow and soft and perfect. “A few days,” he reiterated, gently pushing the teen in the direction he needed to go.

“A few days,” Stiles repeated again, pressing his engagement ring into Derek's warm palm for safe keeping before turning from the older man and forcing himself not to look back so that Derek wouldn't see the smile fall from his face. 

0 o 0 o 0

The flight home was just as uneventful as the first had been. A couple of hours, and Stiles had barely gone through half his favorite playlist. Not that he'd heard any of the songs—his mind had been too busy drowning in a never-ending stream of thoughts. 

As he exited the gate, he took his phone out of airplane mode and brought Derek's number up on the screen, hitting the call button and pressing it to his ear. It went to voicemail after four rings, and he smiled at Derek's gruff tone telling the caller to leave a brief message or don't expect a call back. Stiles' messages were never brief...but Derek never seemed to mind.

“Hey, Der,” he said, weaving his way through the crowded terminal and hitching his backpack further up his shoulder as he felt it start to slip. “Just landed. Got some winks on the plane. I'm gonna find my Pop and make him stop at the nearest Taco Bell and order one of everything on the menu. Dude, I dunno what it is about airplanes. Like, we just had breakfast together a few hours ago, and I'm already starving again. Maybe it's the altitude. I'll look into it.” Stiles huffed. “Sorry. Rambling. Anyway, after I stuff my face, I'm _so_ gonna crash. So in case I miss a call from you later, I love you. And I kind of, like, ridiculously miss you already.” He chuckled. “So, yeah. I'll talk to you soon. Bye.”

Stiles drew in a deep breath and let the air whoosh out of his lungs in a steady stream as he pressed the _End Call_ button. He felt...better. Not entirely worry-free, but definitely _more_ worry-free than any previous worry-frees he'd felt before. Which was just...

_Better._

He let a smile slip onto his lips as he neared the baggage claim, excited to see his Pop and ready to be home again. The sight that greeted him, however, was not one he'd been expecting and stopped him in his tracks immediately. 

Azazel.

He was standing not twenty feet in front of the teen, the crowd around him offering a wide berth and at the same time not seeming to notice his presence at all. Stiles felt his chest tighten, his throat constrict. 

_Not here. Not now_ , he pleaded. At the back of his mind, a voice screamed at him, demanded he call for help—for his dad or Uncle Gabe. But he was frozen. Azazel's piercing gaze held him in place. And when he suddenly found himself again, opened his mouth to shout, the demon was gone—between one blink and the next, he just vanished. 

Stiles swallowed, feeling the panic well in the back of his throat. People were pushing past him, pressing against him. He needed to get away, get _out._

He found a restroom to his right and bolted for it, stumbling into the first available stall he could find and slamming the door closed. His backpack slunk to the floor with a _thud_. Covering his mouth with both hands, he sat on the toilet's edge and closed his eyes. He breathed harshly, clenching his teeth against the burn in his lungs and trying to ignore the pounding of his heart against his ribcage. 

This wasn't happening. This _couldn't_ be happening. Not now. Not so soon. It had to be a trick—he was tired, maybe he was seeing things. 

Trembling fingers fished his phone from his pocket, gracelessly fumbling their way into his contacts and hovering over his Pop's number. He hesitated. What if it _wasn't_ real? What if he scared his parents half to death over something that wasn't there? His Pop would say _Better safe than sorry_. But he couldn't keep calling them over every little scare. He'd be the boy who cried demon in no time...

With shaky hands, he put his phone away, taking a few more deep breaths and letting the tightness leech out of his chest before he stood on wobbly legs, grabbed one strap of his backpack in a white-knuckled fist, and tentatively made his way out of the stall. A couple of men at the sinks eyed him warily through the mirror, but he ignored them, stepping up to a vacant sink and washing his hands until they left. 

When it seemed he was alone, he leaned down and splashed water on his face, scrubbing at his sweat-laced skin with his fingertips. He dried his eyes with his shirt sleeves and turned to find a paper towel. A figure in the mirror just over his right shoulder caught his gaze, and the panic resurfaced tenfold. 

Yellow eyes stared at him intently from a pale, sunken face. Stiles turned quickly, pressing his back to the counter and searching the small space frantically. 

_Empty._

But as soon as he turned back to the mirror, there he was. Tall and slender and distressingly real. Stiles felt the demon's presence fill the room, inch its way into every corner, press against his skin and pin him in place. 

“Hello, Stiles,” Azazel said smoothly, and the teen had to swallow a whimper. Even the man's voice dripped with power, much more than Stiles remembered from their last encounter. “It's good to see you again.”

Stiles wished he could have said something witty or sarcastic or downright rude—he had plenty of material bubbling in the recesses of his mind—but his voice stuck to the roof of his mouth like the peanut butter and honey sandwiches his dad had made him when he was a kid. 

“No need for pleasantries,” Azazel assured him, hands delving into the pockets of his charcoal gray slacks. He wore a suit jacket to match over a white button down. There was a deep purple pocket square in the jacket's left breast pocket. Stiles chose to focus on that instead of those awful eyes as the demon took a few steps towards him. “I'll probably be doing most of the talking anyway.”

Stiles pressed his palms against the counter, leaned over it towards the mirror as the demon stopped just over his right shoulder. He could feel heat, sweltering and suffocating, coming off the man. He smelled like smoke and sulfur, and Stiles resisted the urge to gag as it coated his tongue and the back of his throat. 

“I assume you know by now that we're a little more than _frenemies_ ,” Azazel said smoothly, leaning down and practically pressing his lips to the teen's ear as he smiled wide and breathed the next word like it was an endearment, “ _son_.” 

Stiles closed his eyes and turned his head away, a shiver running through his body that turned into small tremors. “I'm not—” he choked, swallowing the sand paper in his throat. “I'm not your son.”

Azazel hummed softly, and Stiles opened his eyes to find the demon leaning against the counter, hip pressed against the edge. It was disconcerting, seeing him in the mirror yet unable to sense anything in his periphery. Which meant that Azazel was in his head—could have been for who knew how long...

“I understand your fear, Stiles,” the demon said, and the teen cringed at the use of his name. It felt like a cold grip on his insides. Every time Azazel said it, they tugged and squirmed. “More than anyone, I understand that.” He raised a hand as if to place it on the teen's shoulder but hesitated when Stiles made a pained noise, then drew it away. “Your parents will destroy you.”

Stiles did look at him then, ignoring the twisting feeling those eyes gave him and staring at the demon long and hard. “No. They won't.”

“They will,” Azazel said gently, eyebrows raising in what looked like concern. “Once they find out what you really are, what you can _really_ do...They won't want someone like that in the world.”

“I can't do anything,” Stiles denied, shaking his head. 

Azazel smiled, and the gesture made him seem almost human. If not for the eyes, he might actually have looked nice. Someone that Stiles would probably trust. “You can do _so much_ , Stiles. And I can help you see that.” Azazel stood and backed towards the stalls, pacing a few steps to the left. “I can give you whatever you want.”

“I want Derek,” Stiles said automatically, the words falling from his mouth before he could stop them.

Azazel shrugged. “Derek is already yours,” he said. “But I can ensure his safety—the safety of all your friends.”

Stiles felt uncertainty creep into his mind. “What do you mean?”

“The world is going to burn, son,” the demon laughed. “We're going to take it by storm.” He moved to Stiles' left, leaning against the counter as he mirrored his previous stance. “And if you come with me willingly, there is no end to what I can give you.” The demon leaned in, breathing against his ear once more. “You don't have to be alone, Stiles.”

The teen swallowed, shaking his head slightly. “I don't want to be alone,” he admitted quietly. 

Azazel nodded sagely. “And you'll never have to be.”

There was a sudden warm breeze that ruffled through Stiles' hair, and he stared at another figure that appeared in the mirror behind him. “Lowrey?”

The man looked good, strong. Nothing like the dirty werewolf from the cabin's basement. His eyes were a clear, bright blue—something Stiles hadn't noticed in the dark. A forgotten feeling stirred deep in his belly as Lawrence smiled, soft and inviting. 

“Stiles,” he said with the same reverence he'd said _Robby_. The older man's arms snaked around the teen's middle, and he pressed his warm chest into Stiles' back. “I miss you.”

Stiles let loose a shuddering breath, fingers curling against the counter as he resisted the urge to push back into that hold. He grit his teeth against the traitorous arousal coursing through his veins that went lowlow _low_. Shutting his eyes, he shook his head. 

“No,” he said, and the warmth was gone instantly, making him shiver in the cold bathroom. Carefully, he opened his eyes again, finding Lawrence gone but Azazel still standing there, still watching. 

“Your parents cannot give you what I'm offering, Stiles,” he said matter-of-factly. “And if you make me take what I want, I can guarantee several lifetimes of pain.” The power and anger were back in his voice, and the teen felt his stomach drop. The demon leaned in, his tone crisp and hard. “For you and everyone you care about.”

Stiles watched Azazel disappear from the mirror, his presence trailing after him. The teen's skin burned, but he shivered, feeling his stomach finally turn enough to make him want to throw up. 

He bolted for the nearest stall. 

0 o 0 o 0

Dean shifted on his feet anxiously, watching Stiles' bag come around the carousel for a second time. He grabbed the duffel off the line and clenched his jaw, searching the crowd of arriving people again. Stiles was still nowhere to be seen, and his flight had landed almost forty minutes ago. 

Reluctantly, he pulled his cellphone out again, thumb hovering over his son's name. He'd tried him several times already. No answer. Scrolling up, he found Cas's name and forcefully hit the dial button, holding the phone to his ear and swallowing hard. 

“Hello?” Cas answered, and Dean hated how confused and hopeful the angel sounded. 

“Hey,” the hunter said gruffly, clutching Stiles' duffel bag tighter in his clenched fist. “Have you, uh, heard from Stiles?”

There was a short pause, then a hesitant, “No. I thought you were picking him up from the airport.”

“I am,” Dean confirmed, gesturing vaguely with the duffel. “I'm here. But I haven't seen Stiles yet.”

“His flight might have been delayed,” Cas offered feebly, but there was a growing concern in the words, which made the pit of Dean's stomach turn.

“I'm holding his bag, Cas,” he said, voice low. “I'm staring at the flight board. His plane is _here_. He _isn't_.”

There was a sudden whoosh of air, and then Cas was at his side, scanning the crowd. “He's here,” the angel said strangely as Dean put his phone away. 

“Where?”

Cas grabbed his hand, and there was an uncomfortable tug on his insides before they were transported to one of the airport restrooms. It was empty—or seemed to be. The sound of retching from the last stall drew their attention, and Dean set the duffel bag on the floor. 

“Stiles?” Cas called, pulling away from Dean's hold and hurrying to the stall. Dean was right behind him, finding their son hunched over the toilet, shaking and puking. 

Dean breathed a sigh, watching Cas stoop beside the teen and sweep sweaty hair from his forehead.

“Stiles?” 

“He was here,” Stiles choked, spitting into the porcelain bowl as he sobbed. “He was _here_.” 

The hairs on the back of Dean's neck rose, and he glanced around the bathroom quickly. The hunter in him was telling him to stay calm, assess the situation, but the parent in him was _freaking the fuck out_. 

“Did he hurt you?” Dean demanded, glancing back into the stall to find Stiles shaking his head. “What did he say?”

Stiles hunched his shoulders. “H-He said...” The teen broke off in sobs, and Cas rubbed his back. 

“It's okay, Stiles,” the angel said soothingly. “He's gone.”

The teen nodded and sucked in a tight breath. His head snapped up, suddenly, spit and vomit on his chin, lips pulled back over his teeth in a painful grin, and his eyes... _Christ_ , his eyes were a deep, deep black. 

“He said you're gonna die, daddy,” Stiles said in a small, almost child-like voice. He laughed, fingers scratching uselessly at the toilet seat. “You're all going to die. And I'm going to kill you.”

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles woke with a start, sitting up abruptly to find himself in his bedroom. His chest hurt. It felt like he'd been holding his breath forever and was finally able to breathe after so long. He ran a shaking hand through his hair and rubbed at his face. He'd been at the airport, hadn't he? In the bathroom, after...

His stomach lurched as the memories assaulted him, and he swallowed a couple times to keep the bile down. 

Azazel. 

The demon had been there, talked to him, tried to persuade him...making somewhat valid arguments and some very tempting offers. 

“Had us scared there for a bit, kiddo.” 

Stiles jumped and whipped around to find his Uncle Gabe sitting in his computer chair, face solemn and eyes watching him carefully. 

The teen swallowed one more time and nodded. “Yeah.” He swung shaking legs over the side of the bed, pausing when he saw something drawn on the wooden floor boards under his feet. 

A demon trap.

He glanced up at his uncle hesitantly, finding the same piercing gaze on him. The teen sighed and stood, willing himself not to stumble and trip on his face as he took a step over and past the lines.

“I'm not a demon,” he said, arms wrapping around himself as the archangel continued to stare at him. 

“Then what are you?” Uncle Gabe asked flatly, swinging the chair slightly to face him. 

Stiles shrugged, feeling a lump clog his throat. “I dunno,” he croaked helplessly. “I thought I was a kid. And now it turns out I'm not.”

Uncle Gabe nodded. “So what are you gonna do, Stiles?”

Stiles clenched his jaw and looked towards his bedroom door. “I guess I'm gonna go talk to my dads.”

The angel nodded again and stood. “Good choice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy. Things took a heck of a turn in this chapter. I honestly wasn't expecting this. It just sort of...happened. I do hope everything works out. 
> 
> And don't tell anyone, but I think I might be in love with Peter a little bit in this part of the series...He's such a gigantic asshole, but there's something about his "soft side" I seem to like...We'll see if it's really a soft side or just a trick. I'll probably still love him either way. I'm definitely seeing more interactions between Stiles and Peter in the near future.
> 
> Until the next chapter, my friends! :D


	4. Sorry Sorry I'm So Sorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Washington wasn't just Spring Break."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Hello!! Look at you, lookin' all fine and wonderful today!! How's the weather where you are? Are you staying warm? Cool? A moderate, comfortable temperature? I hope so. My cat and I are staying pleasantly warm in this cold nonsense with cuddling and apple cider (on my part, Jack does not enjoy apple cider).
> 
> This chapter is not nearly as long as I wanted it to be, but I do hope it doesn't disappoint. We are about to head into dangerous territory after this particular one, I must warn you...Things may look bleak for a bit. D:
> 
> But I hope you'll keep calm and carry on with me as this crazy series continues!!! Love you all so much for sticking with me this long!! I've gotten several comments from readers who have read the series all in one go, and I am just astonished that you would think this series good enough to take the time to do so. Thank you so much, everyone! Enjoy!

Stiles descended the staircase like a man condemned, Uncle Gabe only a step behind. The whispered arguing he could hear stopped as he rounded the landing and came into view of the dining room, where his parents and Uncle Sammy stood tensely around the table. The teen hesitated, but a gentle hand on his back had him descending the final stairs and nervously shifting under the gaze of the adults. 

“Sit down,” his Pop said, tone quiet but firm. Stiles swallowed and looked to the chair waiting for him. It looked like an ordinary chair, like all the others sitting around the table. But the teen knew better. This chair, like much of the furniture in their home, was warded within an inch of its life. He doubted it would have an effect on him...but there was always a chance. 

“Stiles,” his Dad said, warm voice jolting him from his thoughts. “Sit down.” Like his Pop's, the words were quiet. But there was no uncertainty about the fact that if the teen chose not to sit, he would be _made_ to sit.

So he sat, stomach twisting as he waited for the sensation of being trapped to fall over his limbs. Nothing happened, however, and the teen let loose a shaky breath, shifting in the seat to get a little more comfortable. 

A glass of water was placed on the table in front of him, and judging by the tense looks they gave him, he knew it must be holy water. Stiles took the glass without being prompted and downed the entire thing. He was thirsty, even after that glass, which had been warm and tasted like dust. Probably from the jugs they kept in the garage. 

He set the glass down and licked his dry lips, surprised when a second glass was set in front of him, this one also water but swimming with chunks of ice that made Stiles' throat ache. He managed a glance at his Dad, who smiled encouragingly. The teen needed no more motivation than that, grabbing the glass so fiercely that water sloshed over the side and ran down his knuckles. He downed that one just as quickly, feeling the cool liquid travel all the way down and pool in his stomach, which gave an uncomfortable lurch at being filled so forcefully. With a shaking hand, he set the glass beside the other, wiping his chin then bunching the fabric of his hoodie in tight fists. 

“Hold out your arm,” his Pop demanded, tone distant as he pulled out a sharp, curved blade. 

“Dean, I don't think that's necessary,” his Dad said, brows drawn together in disapproval, but he didn't stop the hunter as he stepped forward and bent down onto one knee beside the teen's chair. 

Stiles swallowed hard, willing his fingers to unclench and extending his arm towards his Pop. The man held the blade at the cuff of the sleeve, ready to slice a clean line up the fabric, but Stiles drew in a tight breath, fingers twitching. 

“It's—” he started, tongue paralyzed as the other man looked up at him sharply. The teen swallowed again. “It's my favorite hoodie, Pop.” 

The hunter's gaze softened somewhat, and he sighed with a nod, rolling the teen's long sleeve up to reveal pale, unmarred skin. He placed the blade's edge against the underside of Stiles' forearm, the metal cold enough to make the teen shiver. 

The two shared a look before the blade was dragged across his skin. The cut wasn't deep, and the blade was sharp enough that Stiles barely felt the sting of the cut until blood began to well and drip from it in small rivulets. He winced, instinct telling him to tug away, but his Pop held his arm tightly, waving his Dad away when he reached out to heal the wound. Another tense moment was spent waiting to see if the cut would heal on its own, and when it didn't, his Pop stood and stepped away, cleaning the blade and putting it away in his belt—hidden but well within reach. 

His Dad stepped forward immediately, crouching where his Pop had been and reaching out. Stiles flinched, shoving his sleeve back down over the wound and pulling it towards his chest before the angel could touch it. “Don't,” he pleaded, shaking his head as his bottom lip trembled. He choked around the lump in his throat and blinked away the sting behind his eyes. 

His Dad looked at him sadly. “Stiles, let me—” He reached out again, but Stiles only curled further in on himself, chest heaving with labored breaths. 

“Don't touch me.”

The angel pursed his lips, looking torn about what to do. “We aren't going to hurt you,” he said reassuringly. “We just need to...make sure of some things.”

Stiles didn't say anything, just clutched his arm closer to himself and looked at the surface of the table. 

“I called Derek,” his Pop said bluntly, and the teen's entire body tensed. “He took a red-eye flight. He should be back in Beacon Hills in about an hour.”

Stiles nodded, waiting for the inevitable conversation. They must know that _Spring Break_ was a little more than a vacation. 

Uncle Gabe snorted beside Uncle Sammy, shaking his head and muttering, “You can say that again.”

_Fucking mind-reading angels._

“Language,” his uncle chided. 

“Someone wanna fill us in?” his Pop groused, and Uncle Gabe eyed Stiles expectantly. 

If Stiles wasn't going to talk, then the angel certainly would. At least if Stiles was the one telling the story, he could offer details a little more delicately...or skirt around them entirely. 

“Washington,” he said, his voice dry and toneless, “wasn't _just_ Spring Break.”

0 o 0 o 0

He told them. Everything.

Mostly. 

The nitty gritty details he managed to push to the back of his mind so even Uncle Gabe couldn't get to them without really trying. But he told them about Lawrence and the serum from Deaton and the awful, horrible truths he didn't want to be real. 

“I'm...” Stiles swallowed and blinked, still unable to believe the words himself. “I'm his son. Azazel's son.” He shook as he said it, wanting to sob and throw a fit until it wasn't true. But it was. He could feel it. 

“No,” his Pop ground out, jaw clenched so tight that Stiles could almost hear his teeth creak. The hunter shook his head and banged a fist on the table, making Stiles wince, then pointed a finger at him. The teen held his breath in anticipation of the words that would more than likely cause deep, emotional scarring. 

He couldn't be a part of this family anymore. 

He wasn't their son. 

He needed to pack his things and get the hell out. 

“You're not his son,” his Pop said fiercely, and Stiles' stilled. He hadn't been expecting _that_ , of all things. “You're _ours_. You're _our fucking family._ ” 

Stiles waited. No one protested the words. 

_Fuck._

How had he let Azazel convince him his parents wouldn't want him? Would want to hurt him? … How had he let his own head convince him of that?

Tears flooded his eyes, and before he could stop them, they were falling. He wiped them away with his sleeve and sniffed a few times. 

“And it was fucking stupid what you did,” his Pop continued, though there was little anger behind the words. Just concern. Fear. “You should have told us. And...you're fucking grounded. Forever.”

Stiles managed a weak laugh as he wiped snot and tears from his face, the muscles in his shoulders aching and trembling from being tight for so long. He would gladly be grounded forever if it meant this family, _his_ family, would keep him.

“Did he hurt you? This Lawrence?” his Dad asked, fingers stretching like he wanted to reach out. 

Stiles closed his eyes. “No,” he managed, shaking his head and trying to push the memories of the werewolf from his mind. “No, he thought I was his mate. He tried to protect me. From Derek and Peter.”

“Is that where your bruises came from?” Uncle Sammy asked grimly, and Stiles huffed an agitated breath.

“We wanted to make it...authentic,” he explained, jumping when his Pop stood abruptly, chair scraping against the wooden floor. 

“I'm gonna kill him,” he muttered, pacing the space behind the table restlessly. 

“Dean,” Stiles' Dad said gently, gaze on the table. “I think you should sit down. We're not done.” The hunter paced a few more steps before grumbling and returning to the chair, making sure to keep a small distance between himself and the angel. “You're father's right,” his Dad continued, tone quiet but scolding. “It was very dangerous what you did. You and your friends could have been hurt, or worse.”

Stiles nodded. “I know,” he choked, wiping spit from his mouth and trying to control his breathing. “I was afraid.”

“Of us?” his Uncle Sammy asked, eyebrows drawn downward.

The teen shook his head, a soft, desperate noise escaping him as he looked up, terrified gaze sweeping over them. “Of what I might do.”

Silence. 

And then his Dad spoke. “Stiles. We won't let anything happen.”

“What if you can't stop it? Stop _me_?” the teen demanded, breaths harsh and stuttered. “What if ending this means killing me right here?”

“Jesus, Stiles,” his Pop murmured, rubbing at his face tiredly. 

“I'd let you,” Stiles whispered, watching the looks of horror bloom on his family's faces with wide eyes. “If it made this stop, I'd let you kill me.”

“No one's killing _anyone_ ,” his Pop said sternly, a tremor in the hand he gestured with. 

Stiles' Dad looked at the hand, and his own clenched. Normally he would reach out, take it reassuringly, and hold it until the tremors stopped. Instead, he took a shallow breath and turned back to the teen. “Made _what_ stop, Stiles?” he asked, offering his hand with a gentle smile. 

This time, Stiles tentatively reached out, ignoring the pull of the fresh cut and sighing in relief as soon as his Dad touched his hand and the wound disappeared. Not only the would but also the ache of the bruises littering his body. “He's in my head,” the teen confessed, tone distant and eyes glazing over. “In my dreams. Tugging at me all the time.” Stiles shivered, and his vision began to tunnel around the edges. “I want to go to him. I _need_ to be by his side. He wants me there, wants me to watch him destroy everything...so I can rebuild.”

There was a long pause, and then his Dad spoke, voice small like he was calling him from far away. “Stiles?”

The teen's fuzzy gaze snapped in the angel's direction, and he stared at frightened eyes, pursed lips, worry lines. “Dad?”

His dad leaned forward, sharing a fleeting glance with his uncles before taking a steady breath and saying, “Stiles...your eyes are black.”

As soon as he heard the words, Stiles knew they were true. He could feel the dull bleakness behind his eyes, felt it pushing itself forward, rippling over his pupils like an entity all its own. And just as soon as he was aware of it, it was gone. His vision cleared, and he sat shaking, breathing hard. His hand, the one in his Dad's, ached, and he looked down at it, thinking to find it crushed in his father's grip. 

But that was not it. It was _his_ fingers that were crushing the angel's. One stuck out at an odd angle, giving the impression that it was broken, and Stiles released the hand immediately, pulling back like he was the one in pain. 

His Dad gave no indication that it hurt, though it must have. He was an angel, yes, but a fallen one. Mostly human, barring the few angelic perks he'd been able to keep. And lack of pain was, unfortunately, not one of those perks. 

“I'm sorry,” Stiles breathed, hands trembling as he began to wring them restlessly. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”

“It's okay,” his Dad said calmly, healing the finger without even a wince and bending it experimentally. 

“It's not,” Stiles said before anyone else could. He could see the words in their eyes, wanted to say them before they had to. “It's so not...I can't stay here.”

“Stiles,” his Pop said warningly, already shaking his head at what the teen was suggesting. 

“I can't stay,” Stiles repeated, the words cutting into his very core. Because he wanted to. _God_ , did he want to. But he couldn't. “It's worse when I'm here,” he admitted, his stomach giving a painful lurch. “I need...I need...”

“Derek,” his Dad finished for him, a sad finality filling the name. 

Stiles nodded. “I need Derek.” He glanced around the table with a sudden certainty. “I want to stay at Derek's.”

“No,” his Pop said firmly, and Stiles' hopes fell. It was the only way...

“Dean, if that's where he feels safe—” his Dad tried, but the hunter was quick to interrupt. 

“He's safe with _us_. In this house.”

“Derek's loft is warded,” Stiles pointed out, shrugging when the adults looked at him incredulously. “We had a free weekend.” His Pop started to speak again, but the teen cut him off. “I can't,” he said, voice tight. “I can't stay here...Not with the way you'll look at me.”

His Pop faltered. “We won't—” 

“You already are,” Stiles argued painfully, looking down at the table so those accusing eyes would stop staring at him. “I'll be safe at Derek's.”

His Dad reached out, newly healed finger ghosting against his cheek and catching the tears making their way down the teen's face. “It'll be okay, Stiles.”

“I know,” Stiles lied. 

0 o 0 o 0

_One Week Later:_

Lydia swept into Derek's loft with all the beauty and grace she'd acquired since her mother hand started dressing her in Prada. 

Which Stiles assumed was sometime around _birth_. 

In any case, the way her heels clacked determinedly across the floorboards had the pen in Stiles' mouth falling to the pile of books and papers surrounding him on the floor and the explanation of separation of variables sticking to his tongue. The redhead certainly had a presence that trumped Advanced Calculus.

Beside him, Scott gave a relieved huff, the worry lines creasing his forehead smoothing out as the young woman approached. “What's up, Lydia?” he asked, startling as she dropped a mound of notebooks and papers that rivaled their own. “Uh, you joining the study group?”

Lydia raised a finely manicured eyebrow. “Group?” she asked skeptically, watching disinterestedly as a hand appeared from behind the couch. 

Erica appeared, a desperate look on her face as she reached for Lydia dramatically. “Help...us...” She fell back behind the couch with a thud and lay there morosely. 

Lydia hummed. “No. I am not here to _study_.” She leveled a cool gaze on Stiles, who had the decency to shrink back against the couch. “I'm here to _plan_. Your _wedding_. Which is in _four months_.”

Stiles' left eyebrow twitched. “But I haven't—” 

“Told your dads. Yeah, I know. It seems to be a running theme with you.” Lydia put her hands on her hips and sighed. “It puts a damper on things, but we can work around it for now.”

Erica popped up from behind the couch, energy miraculously renewed. “Study break?” she asked hopefully, hopping the furniture and plopping beside Scott on the cushion. 

Stiles rubbed at his forehead, wincing at the steady pounding just behind his eyes. “Shouldn't Derek be here for this?”

“Why, so he can sit here and brood the whole time?” Lydia smoothed her dress as she sat, pulling the largest notebook, which turned out to be a planner, from the stack and flipping through it. “No. That's why Scott's here.”

Stiles looked at his best friend, who squirmed under the attention. “You're helping plan the wedding?”

“Um,” Scott started, shrugging one shoulder and looking helplessly lost. 

“Scott's helping _you_ make decisions about wedding plans,” Lydia corrected, finding the page she wanted and fishing into her purse for a bright pink pen. “He knows you better than _you_ know you. I figured it would take some of the pressure off.”

Stiles breathed a heavy sigh, tension he hadn't even been aware of easing from his limbs. “Thanks, Lyds.”

The redhead offered no more than a prim smile before clearing her throat and saying, “Let's get started.”

0 o 0 o 0

Wedding planning, as it turned out, was just as exhausting as studying and had Erica groaning about math homework in no time. 

There were easy questions.

_“Best man?”_

_“Scott.”_

_“Dude!”_

_“Dude.”_

_“Please don't call each other 'dude' at the wedding.”_

There were hard questions. 

_“Wedding colors?”_

_“Uh..”_

_“Oh! Stiles, choose aqua marine and chocolate brown!”_

_“Erica, please keep your hideous suggestions to yourself.”_

And then there were questions that made Stiles' throat close up.

_“Do you know who you want performing the ceremony?”_

“Deaton might be able to,” Scott said helpfully. “I mean, he was the Hales' emissary. He must have done a few ceremonies.”

“Sure,” Stiles said uncertainly. 

“May I make a suggestion?” a voice asked from across the loft, and they turned as a group to find Peter sitting nearby, eyebrows raised with intrigue. 

“No,” Stiles said immediately, and the other man rolled his eyes. 

“I'm not suggesting _myself_ , nephew-to-be,” he said, and Stiles groaned. Peter had taken to calling him that recently, and the teen hated it. A lot. “What about your Uncle Gabriel?”

Stiles paused. It actually wasn't a bad idea. 

“Would he be able to do that?” Scott asked curiously. 

“He's an archangel,” Erica said snidely. “Probably the best thing next to God Himself marrying you two idiots.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agreed absently, the insult going over his head. “I'll talk to him.”

“And,” Lydia said, pausing and making a note in her planner, “do you know who you want to give you away?”

A heavy silence fell over the room.

“Is that...” Stiles swallowed, his throat clicking. “I mean, I'm a guy. I thought that was for brides, and stuff.”

“You _are_ the bride in this scenario, genius,” Erica muttered, grunting when Scott elbowed her. 

Lydia put her pen down and folded her hands on top of it to keep it from rolling away. “It's up to you, Stiles. In traditional Lychan ceremonies, both partners have someone give their consent for the wedding.”

Stiles' breath caught. “Does Derek..?”

“He's chosen Peter, as he's the last remaining member of their family,” the redhead said clinically, making no move to look at said werewolf. 

Stiles did, however, look at Peter, who merely raised an eyebrow and stared back. The teen looked down at his hands, fingers interlocked and twisting. “I, uh, don't know.”

Lydia nodded. “Okay. We can come back to that one.”

“No,” Stiles said quickly, breath stuttering as all eyes fell on him. “I don't...I don't know if I want anyone to give me away.”

“Stiles?” Scott asked carefully. 

“I don't know if I want this.” Stiles gestured to Lydia's planner. “A wedding. A ceremony. I don't...” He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and concentrated on his breathing, which was starting to spiral out of control. “I don't know. I don't—” 

“Stiles, man, it's okay,” Scott said, voice barely audible beyond the rushing in Stiles' ears. A hand curled around his shoulder, and he jumped up from the couch, shoes wrinkling and tearing the papers on the floor as he stepped blindly away from the group. 

There were several calls of his name as he stumbled to who knew where. He just needed to get out, stop the buzzing in his head, the pounding behind his ribcage, the twisting in his stomach. He didn't stop moving until he rammed into something hard. A wall, maybe. Or the loft's door. He reached out, groping for the handle so he could escape. His fingers curled around a warm, well-muscled bicep. When had the door grown arms?

Stiles blinked some of the blurriness from his vision, finding a stubbled jaw, flared nostrils, concerned green eyes. 

“Derek?” he choked, swallowing hard as the man's hands came up to gently rest at his waist. 

“Stiles. Breathe,” Derek said, the word more of a plea than a command. 

Stiles obeyed regardless, dragging in a shuddering breath and releasing it in a huff. His chest loosened a little, and the muscles where Derek touched him relaxed. “Sorry,” he said, fingers fisting Derek's t-shirt with white knuckles. “I'm sorry.”

Derek pressed gently at the teen's sides. “Come with me.” He guided him towards the kitchen, Stiles holding on for dear life as the room spun until he was sitting on a stool and a glass of ice water was being pressed into a shaking hand. 

“Sorry,” he said again after messily guzzling more than half of it. 

“You said that,” Derek murmured, leaning on the opposite counter and crossing his arms. “What's going on?”

Stiles stared at his fiance—and for the first time that word turned his stomach—for a long moment before letting the glass slip from his fingers and clatter loudly against the counter. “We're...wedding planning.” He glanced up fleetingly before looking back at the glass and letting his fingertips skim over the water droplets on the side. “You know. For our wedding.”

“Is someone else having a wedding I should know about?” Derek asked quietly.

Stiles breathed slowly and swallowed hard before letting loose the words bubbling up his throat with abandon. “It's just so _much_. The questions and the colors and the people, and I don't care! I mean, I care. I care a lot! But only about getting _married_. I don't care who's there or what I'm wearing or what flavor the cake is—and that's a lie; if it's not vanilla bean with chocolate mousse frosting, I'm leaving you.” He took a breath and looked the other man in the eye. Derek looked completely unperturbed, waiting for the young man to continue. “Derek, I just want to be married to you and call you my husband and be ridiculously, _disgustingly_ happy for the rest of my life. Is that too much to ask?”

The corners of Derek's mouth twitched upward, and he huffed, making his way around the counter and pressing himself to Stiles in a warm, pleasant way. “No. It's not too much to ask.” He rubbed Stiles' arms, and the teen felt himself slowly start to turn to jelly. “Stiles, if you don't want a wedding, we don't have to have a wedding.” 

Stiles buried his face into Derek's shoulder. “Really?”

The werewolf nuzzled into Stiles' hair and inhaled. “Really.” He turned the teen's head and kissed him softly. “Stiles, I want you to be happy. If this makes you happy, then it's what I want.”

Stiles shook his head. “It makes me sound selfish.”

“You're not,” Derek assured. “You're just asking for something you want. That isn't selfish.”

“Are you sure?” Stiles murmured, fingers skirting the hem of the man's shirt and skimming the skin of his abdomen. 

“Oh my God!” Erica shouted from the living room. “You two know we're still here, right?”

“Then _leave_ ,” Derek growled, hoisting Stiles up until he was sitting on the counter, then settling comfortably between the teen's legs.

Stiles wrapped his arms around his fiance's neck, smiling into their next kiss. And the ones after. 

0 o 0 o 0

A few floors above them, Azazel shivered, frowning at the window. “This place is so cold. How do you stand it?”

The man standing feet away shifted uncomfortably, unsure whether the question was supposed to be rhetorical or not. “Sir, should we move ahead as planned?”

The demon paused, considering the window for a moment longer before taking a sharp breath. “Yes. It's time. Bring Stiles to me.”

The man nodded, turning and walking towards the door. He did not envy the teen or the impending fate awaiting him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooohhhhhhh boy...Stay tuned, my beautiful readers!! I'll see you all in the next chapter!! :D :D :D


	5. You Say Goodbye...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Oh, my son, I am so happy to finally meet you in person."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, all!! I'm so sorry, I meant to get this up a bit sooner...but it was very difficult to write this chapter. 
> 
> As you might notice, I added 
> 
> CHARACTER DEATH
> 
> to the tags. Because there is now a death that I really, honestly, and truly didn't see coming. If you really would rather not read before you know who it is, you can always message me on my tumblr [here](http://sarahatqt.tumblr.com), and I'll be more than happy to discuss it with you. 
> 
> It totally snuck up on me. Like a plot bunny hiding in the shadows that springs at you out of nowhere. Most of the time, they're good plot bunnies that ask you if you're okay and walk you home so you don't feel so alone. And other times, they're just the shady trench coat-wearing bunnies that sell drugs to kids. 
> 
> This bunny was the latter.
> 
> So I just want to apologize for what's to come...

A black mist curled under the front door of the loft, snaking its way through the dark and winding up the staircase. It pressed heavily against Derek's bedroom door, then it was billowing into the room, settling along the floor like a thick fog. 

_Stiles_ , it hissed as it surrounded the bed, and the teen's eyes snapped open, black and murky. _Stilesss_. 

Stiles extracted himself from the werewolf curled around him, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and stood. The mist parted where his feet touched the floor, and for a moment he swayed in place. 

_Come, Stiles_ , the mist said, swirling around him hypnotically. _This way_. 

The teen took a step toward the door, one of the floorboards creaking. The mist spun in a panicked swirl as the werewolf in the bed startled and sat up abruptly, looking around until his sleepy gaze fell on the younger man. 

“Stiles?” he asked amidst a yawn. “You okay?”

Stiles turned his head only slightly. “Go back to sleep,” he said, tone barren and dry. The werewolf looked confused for just a moment, but his eyes closed, and he fell back against the mattress as if sleep had snuck up on him and taken hold.

Stiles turned back to the door, making his way out into the hall and down the staircase. 

_This way_ , the mist encouraged, following the teen to the front door and slithering back under it as Stiles gripped the handle and tugged it open. 

A figure stood on the other side, the mist coiling around him and absorbing into his skin until it vanished.

“Hello, Stiles,” the man said tonelessly, reaching out and placing a hand on the teen's shoulder. 

Stiles shivered, allowing himself to be led down the hallway to the elevator. 

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles watched through hazy eyes as the elevator doors closed. Something in a distant corner of his mind was screaming _RUN_. But, mostly, he just felt...empty. Cold. 

He turned his head and stared at the man standing stoically beside him, suddenly recognizing his face. “You're Karsen's brother.” His gaze shifted just over the man's shoulder, and he frowned. “Fake brother, I guess.”

The man didn't bother looking in his direction. “I was.”

Stiles nodded. “Sorry for your loss,” he said quietly, not entirely sure why he said it.

The man did look at him then, eyebrows drawn together. He definitely didn't look anything like Karsen, but much like the Leviathan had been, he was still distinguishable. After all, Stiles had only glimpsed him once very briefly through the tinted windows of a Chevy Cavalier several months ago, and he still recognized him.

“Wasn't really a loss,” the man said bitterly.

Stiles swallowed and nodded, letting the man's gaze drift back to the elevator doors before he said, “You won't be either.”

The elevator screeched to a halt, and the doors slid open with a grinding whine. Stiles was the only one to exit. 

0 o 0 o 0

Azazel breathed deep the copper-scent in the air as the door to the empty loft slid open with an awful scraping noise, and he turned from the window, smiling as the teen wavered on his feet in the doorway. 

“No need to be shy,” the demon assured him, gesturing the young man forward. “Come here. Let me have a look at you.”

Stiles walked towards him as if in a trance. He was wearing long, flannel pajama bottoms that pooled around his feet and a worn white t-shirt that was spattered with a bright, fresh red. His right hand was coated in something darker than blood. It dripped from his fingertips in a trail as he stumbled forward, small bits of flesh slapping to the floorboards every other step. His black eyes gleamed. 

He was beautiful.

Azazel strode forward and met him halfway, hand reaching out and fingers curling around bony shoulders. “Oh, my son,” he breathed, a wide smile on his face as he leaned in, “I am so happy to finally meet you in person.”

Stiles wobbled uncertainly in his grasp, fingers twitching restlessly. “I don't think I'm supposed to be here,” he rasped, gasping when the demon leaned forward, hands fluttering up to the teen's face.

Azazel smiled warmly, thumb smearing a drop of blood just below Stiles' left eye. “You are,” he said softly. “You're exactly where you need to be.” Stiles continued to stare at him vacantly, and Azazel shifted, turning back to the window and placing a hand on the teen's back. “Come with me. I want to show you something.” He ushered Stiles forward until they were both at the window. Cool night air created a fog on the glass panes. “What do you see?”

Stiles stared. “I see Beacon Hills.”

Azazel leaned forward, long fingers wiping the fog away with barely a sound. He pressed himself to Stiles' back, lips at the teen's ear as he whispered, “What do you see now?”

Stiles didn't answer, but the demon knew what he was seeing. A world on fire. A world in chaos, where the weak would be eliminated. “My fire,” he said, arms coming up to encircle the young man as they both stared out the window, transfixed on the illusion—on the _future_ , “will wipe out the unrighteous, Stiles. And you—” He closed his eyes and breathed a heavy sigh. “You will be the Messiah that leads the worthy into our New World.”

0 o 0 o 0

Derek glared at the elevator doors as if staring at them long enough would make them submit and tell him what he wanted to know. They didn't. And his frustration grew. 

Isaac appeared from the stairwell, looking troubled. “I didn't catch a scent downstairs. And his jeep is still here. He didn't leave.”

Derek's frown deepened, and he and Isaac both looked at the elevator doors, where Stiles' scent ended...and the smell of blood was strong. “Why would he have gone up?”

Isaac shifted apprehensively. “Should we call Mr. Winchester?”

Derek pursed his lips with a frustrated noise, punching the elevator button with enough force to make it crack. The irritating whine of metal grating against metal sounded in the elevator shaft, and both werewolves tensed as the smell of copper grew stronger. The doors opened, and Isaac turned away abruptly, covering his nose to keep the awful scent of rot and blood and death at bay for as long as possible. 

The Alpha stared at what looked like someone who had been decaying for a lot longer than the fresh blood coating the walls seemed to indicate. The man's body looked sunken, gray skin stretched thinly and empty sockets where his eyes should have been. A gaping hole lay in the center of his chest, the flesh around it torn and dripping in what could really only be labeled as black sludge. 

Derek took his cellphone out of his pocket and opened his contacts. “I don't think we have a choice.”

0 o 0 o 0

Dean felt a sudden tug to consciousness and reached out towards the noise that had woken him. “Cas? Is that your phone or mine?” He didn't get an answer, and when his hand knocked something over that made an even louder noise, his head shot up off his pillow, and he looked around groggily. 

He was in the living room, on the couch where he'd been sleeping for the last week. It unsettled him, not being close to his husband. And for a split second, he couldn't remember why they weren't in the same bed, curled into one another. 

Dean shivered from the lack of warmth he remembered and rubbed at his face. 

Fuck, when had he gotten so stupid?

They'd all done shit over the years. _Worse_ shit than what Cas had done. And the angel hadn't brought up a single one, hadn't tried to shift the blame from himself or point out Dean's _many_ flaws. Because Cas wasn't like that, had _never_ been like that. And Dean was too fucking tired and too fucking old to hold onto crap like that anymore. What the hell was he doing down here on the couch when Cas was all alone in their bed?

Dean was a fucking moron.

The hunter sat up, intent on going upstairs, when suddenly the noise that had woken him to begin with broke through his haze. His cellphone was ringing. He snatched the object from the table, frowning at the empty beer bottle tipped onto its side and hitting the answer button without looking at the caller's name. 

“Yeah?” he said, sleep still coating his voice. He cleared his throat and swallowed, squinting at the coffee table for any leftover beer to wash the stickiness down. His gaze centered on a clear glass of water that he knew he hadn't put there. His stomach plummeted with guilt, and he took the glass and downed a mouthful. 

“Mr. Winchester,” Derek said from the other end of the phone, and the hunter froze, nearly choking on the water he'd just swallowed as his throat seized.

“What happened?” he asked quickly, sitting forward and ready to spring from the couch. “Is Stiles okay?”

Derek sighed, and the puff of air sent a crackle of static across the line. “I woke up, and he was gone,” he said, tone laced with frustration. “Isaac and I followed his scent to an apartment two floors up.”

Setting the water down, Dean stood and began to pace the living room. “Is he in there?”

“We don't know.”

The hunter stopped pacing and rolled his eyes upward, his limited patience waning. These damn kids. Getting information from them was like pulling teeth. “Well, find the fuck out!” 

There was a sudden gust, and Dean turned to find a sleep-ruffled Cas standing nearby, concern shining in his beautiful eyes. The hunter reached out before he knew what he was doing, tugging the angel against his side and pressing his lips to Cas' temple. It was more habit than anything, but Dean was hoping the angel would take it for the apology it was for now. Cas startled uncertainly at first but let his body mold itself to Dean's, arms wrapping around his middle and leaning into the contact as much as possible. 

“We _can't_ ,” Derek growled. “The door's lined with mountain ash.”

Dean swore under his breath, bunching the fabric of Cas' night shirt—one of Dean's old t-shirts—in a white-knuckled fist. “We'll be there soon. Stay put.” He hung up quickly, knowing the words were unnecessary. What else were they going to do?

He stared into the angel's _blueblueblue_ eyes and furrowed his brow, sighing heavily. There were several things he wanted to say, all of which started with an apology and ended with heated make-up sex. His throat clicked, and he opened his mouth, ready to say something— _anything_ —that would make up for the months he'd been a complete asshole. 

But what came out was, “We need Gabe and Sam.”

Castiel nodded like he'd expected the words, and barely a second after Dean had said them, the men in question were standing beside them. Gabe's sharp gaze flicked between the two as Sam yawned widely, looking around with sleepy disorientation but seeming unsurprised.

“We interrupting something?” Gabe asked, one eyebrow cocked suggestively. 

Dean pressed his lips together in a tight line but didn't step away from his husband. He wanted so badly to express how sorry he was. 

_Please forgive me forgive me forgive me_. 

But their son needed them.

“It's Stiles,” Dean said instead.

There would be time later. 

0 o 0 o 0

Isaac paced the hallway in front of the loft door anxiously. He'd texted Scott, hoping he would reach out to the others and that they'd be there soon. Maybe Lydia could break the mountain ash line...

There was a sudden _pop-sizzle_ in the air that made Isaac cringe, and then the Winchesters were there, looking every bit the nightmare the old rumors had painted them to be. The teen couldn't help cowering slightly, seeing the four of them standing in the shadows of the corridor. 

Derek, who was still standing in front of the loft door and brooding at it, didn't even flinch. His heart rate didn't waver in the slightest. He probably had other concerns on his mind. 

Dean, holding what looked like a make-shift blade lashed to a bone, wasted no time stepping up to the door, sliding it open and scraping a boot across the ash line. The barrier disappeared instantly (how the heck was that even _possible_?), and the hunter stomped into the room, the other three following closely. 

“Stay here,” Derek ordered. Isaac made to protest, but the Alpha placed a warm hand on his arm, giving him hard look. “Wait for the others.” 

Isaac swallowed and nodded, watching him trail after them like he belonged with them, like he was the stuff of legends and could walk with hunters and angels like it was no big deal. The teen idly wondered if there would be stories about Derek one day.

The wolf who stood with the Winchesters. 

0 o 0 o 0

Dean's stomach twisted as soon as he entered the loft, the stale smell of sulfur and rot and blood filling his nostrils, coating the back of his throat thickly. It had been a long time since he'd felt this particular presence, but he recognized it right away. 

A man stood at the large windows, a silhouette against the dull moonlight streaming in. He was tall; a stick of a man. And as he turned, the breath left Dean's lungs in a nauseating rush. Yellow eyes gleamed at him in the dark. 

Azazel.

“Dean,” the demon greeted. His voice sounded rough, despite how young his host looked. Jesus, the hunter hoped this meat-sack was dead. Demon possession was absolute hell. “It's been too long.”

“Not long enough,” Dean murmured, and Azazel chuckled. “Come back for round two?”

The demon smiled and shook his head. “You know, Dean, I had a lot of time to think while I was in Purgatory. And, I admit, at first I was angry.” Several street lights outside suddenly popped, shrinking into darkness with a few final sparks. “But then I came to realize that I was going about this the wrong way.” He stepped forward a few paces, and Dean's grip on his weapon tightened. “I shouldn't be blaming anyone for what happened. I should be taking the opportunity to rebuild myself, start new. Let bygones be bygones.” 

The demon stopped several feet from Dean, clasping his hands behind his back and giving the hunter a meaningful look. “I forgive you, Dean.”

“Well, I'm not sorry I killed you, so I don't want your fucking forgiveness,” Dean spat angrily, shoulders beginning to shake. “What I _want_ is my son.”

Azazel sighed. “Still so much rage in you, Dean...Maybe you _were_ the right brother for the job.” Dean sensed Sam shift uncomfortably behind him. “Tell you what,” the demon continued conversationally, “as a gesture of good faith, I'll let you talk to Stiles, try to convince him that he belongs with you.”

“He _does_ belong with us,” Dean argued through clenched teeth.

Azazel cocked his head. “We'll see.” He raised his right hand, gesturing to a dark corner, and crooked his finger. “Stiles, why don't you join us?”

Something in the shadows moved, wet footsteps slapping against the wooden floors in a slow, steady rhythm. Stiles stepped into the limited light, and Dean nearly choked at the sight of him. Blood. So much blood. It coated one of his hands up to the wrist. No, that wasn't blood. It was some sort of thick liquid, dripping from his fingertips in rivulets. Smears of it coated his neck and jawline as if someone had tried to fend him off. Judging by the amount of red spattered across Stiles' body, they'd failed. 

As the teen stopped at Azazel's side and turned, Dean was able to look into wide, vacant eyes that were a _deepdeepdeep_ black. 

This was the _Boy King_ , the one Sammy had almost become. He was frightening and raw and so very _void_. Dean looked at him, at his son, and saw destruction. Hellfire. Death. 

Azazel ran his fingers through Stiles' hair, and Dean heard Derek growl low in his throat. “Go ahead, son,” the demon said with a soft encouragement. 

The black in Stiles' eyes swirled and ebbed away, and the teen swayed on his feet, blinking dazedly. 

Dean took a steadying breath. “Stiles?”

The teen's gaze focused on him, his eyebrows drawn together. “Pop?” he asked, voice sleep-rough. Before the hunter could say anything, Stiles looked down at himself, eyes going wide as he sucked in a tight breath. “What—” 

“Stiles, it's okay,” Dean said quickly, raising his free hand and taking a step forward. 

“What did I do?” Stiles looked up, eyes filled with tears and hands shaking, held out like he didn't know what to do with them. “What did I...?”

“It wasn't you,” Dean soothed as gently as his panicking mind would allow. “You didn't do anything wrong.”

“But...But I did,” Stiles sobbed, voice breaking as he shook his head. “I'm wrong. I'm wrong, I'm wrong.”

“Stiles—”

“Why did you let this happen?” The teen's crying abated, and his wide eyes stared at Dean accusingly. 

Dean was taken aback by the sudden shift, and he floundered in his own head for the right words, but none came. 

“Why did you let me be like this, Pop?” Stiles' voice was small, sad. It was the same voice he'd used when he was six and asked why his fishy was dead. 

_Was it because I didn't love him enough?_

_No, Stiles. You loved fishy very much. Sometimes things happen that we can't control._

_But why did fishy have to die?_

_Not everything or everyone can be around forever, baby. Death is what happens when it's time to start a new beginning._

“Why couldn't you just _kill me_ like I asked you to?” The teen shook, and the whole room seemed to shake with him. 

Dean swallowed hard and closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again, he set a pleading gaze on his son. “Because it's not time for a new beginning yet.”

Stiles faltered, the shaking of the room receding as he stared at Dean like he was trying hard to remember something. The look of hope on the hunter's face must have given him away because Azazel's hand shot forward, fingers curling around Stiles' shoulder like talons and squeezing. The teen's eyes went black again, and his face contorted into fury. 

“This is _your fault_!” he yelled, and Dean felt something in his gut shift, tighten, stretch. He grunted and stumbled back.

0 o 0 o 0

“Dean!” Castiel called, catching the man and steadying them both as the tremors in the room began to shake the floor boards apart.

“Everything is your fault!” the teen screamed, and Dean doubled over in pain, blood welling into the corners of his mouth and dribbling down his chin. 

They were losing Dean. They were losing Stiles. Something had to be done. 

Castiel clenched his teeth, holding his dying husband and making a decision before he could properly think it through. 

“No!” he shouted, shifting Dean into the nearest person's arms, then facing his son while shielding the wounded man from view. “This is _your_ fault, Stiles!” 

The teen's anger disappeared, replaced with confused surprise. And hurt. Castiel had never spoken that way to his son. He wanted to stop, to take it back, but he steeled himself and pushed what angelic presence he could muster in front of himself. It was for Stiles. It was for his family. 

“You're _evil_ ,” he continued, tone angry and accusing. “I knew from the moment I saw you. You _belong_ with something like him.” He gestured towards Azazel, who was watching him with curious, narrowed eyes. 

“Cas, don't,” Gabriel warned, but this had to end. 

The angel swallowed, knowing the next words would be the ones to tip the boy over the edge. “I should have killed you eighteen years ago so you could _rot_ with your real parents.”

Silence.

And then a deafening rage.

Stiles screamed, and the awful noise filled the room so fully that even Azazel covered his ears. It was a scream that rivaled even that of Lydia's death screech. Darkness poured from the teen in waves. The windows behind them shattered, the air around them boiled. 

Castiel felt several things inside him swell and burst. He gasped and clutched at his stomach, gurgling as something warm and coppery bubbled up his throat. 

He fell, and someone caught him. 

It was Sam. He sighed gratefully, though the noise was muddled.

“Cas!” Dean shouted in a panic, scrambling out of Gabriel's hold and towards them. He took Sam's place, clutching the angel as tightly as he could. “No, no, no! Gabe!” 

The archangel was already crouching down beside them, hand splaying over Cas' stomach. Castiel felt a painful tug, and he lurched in his husband's arms, closing his eyes and loosing tears that curled back into his hairline. 

“Shit,” Gabriel murmured, pulling his hand away as if he'd been burned. 

Dean looked at him desperately. “What? What's going on?”

Gabriel shook his hand out, kneading at his palm and wincing. “I can't heal him.”

Dean shook his head, eyes wide and brimming with angry tears. “No. No, you heal him right now, Gabe. You _fucking heal him right now_!” 

Gabriel's shoulders sank, and he pressed his lips together hard, placing his hand on Castiel's stomach again and closing his eyes. This time, his whole body shook, and he gave a pained shout before being knocked backwards entirely. Sam moved to his side, helping him sit up. 

“It won't work,” Castiel said softly, spitting as much blood out of his mouth as he could.

Dean looked down at him with a fierce determination. “No. I don't believe that,” he said, voice shaking. “I don't _believe that_. We just have to try harder.”

Castiel swallowed with a grimace and raised one hand to cup Dean's cheek. The hunter raised his own hand, stringing their fingers together and holding them there. “It...won't work,” the angel repeated, throat tightening as more blood made its way up. “What-Whatever he did, I can't...I won't...” His eyes clenched shut as he coughed, dragging in a labored breath. 

“I don't understand,” Dean said. He looked at Gabriel with pleading eyes. 

Gabriel leaned heavily on Sam, despair flashing across his face. “There's a block,” he explained. “Probably a ward that Azazel put in the room somewhere. I can't get past it. And I can't remove it once it's found a source.”

“So we take him home,” Dean reasoned, looking back down at Castiel and nodding. “We'll get you home, get you patched up. You'll be fine.”

Castiel shook his head tiredly, the edges of his vision beginning to go dark. 

“Don't do that,” the hunter pleaded with a sob. “Don't...Don't...”

“The ward,” Gabriel said quietly, having to stop and close his eyes, “binds itself to an angel's grace, an angel's vessel.” The archangel took a shuddering breath. “Even when he dies—” 

“Jesus,” Dean said on a sharp exhale, burying his face in Cas' shirt and sobbing into the material. 

“—we won't be able to bring him back.”

Dean lifted his head and stared down into the angel's eyes. “It's not true. We'll find a way. We _always_ find a way.”

Castiel smiled. The pain was gone. He would miss this beautiful face. It would be a while before he could see it in person again. 

“I love you, Dean,” he breathed. 

Dean choked, leaning their foreheads together. “I love you. I love you, I love you. Baby, I'm so sorry.” He pressed their lips together, the hunter's taste mingling with the blood on the angel's tongue. 

When they pulled apart, Castiel took a shallow breath, needing just a moment longer. 

_Please, please just a little longer._

“Stiles,” he said, and Dean's gaze went dark. No, the angel didn't want that. They'd be the only ones. All they would have was each other. “Find him,” he said, sucking blood and air into his lungs. “Bring him home.”

The hunter closed his eyes and looked away. 

“Dean,” Castiel said desperately. He wanted the last thing he saw to be those beautiful green eyes that had captivated him so fully since the first time they'd looked at him. Dean turned back, and Castiel felt at peace. “He's our son.” He squeezed his husband's hand. “He's _our_ son.” 

His chest felt so heavy. 

His eyes fluttered closed. 

And then there was darkness...

...But just as suddenly, there was light and warmth, and Castiel smiled, the memory of green eyes filling him whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm. So. Sorry. 
> 
> I really, really, really hate myself for this. It really did just come out of nowhere...And, as of now, there is no plan to bring Cas back, in this part or the next. :(
> 
> I'm just gonna go bury myself in the yard, okay? Just curl up in the dirt and cry a bit longer.


	6. Rescue Me (How The Story Ends)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He'd gotten too used to the idea that death couldn't touch them, was something they could brush off and walk away from. But seeing this man, cold and lifeless, on the Winchester's couch was enough to shake him...And if someone like him could die, then it could happen to any of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyyyyy!!! Hey, you!! Hi!! What's going on? How're things? How's your family? Are you staying warm? Staying cool? Staying comfortable? I hope so! Because you're really, really ridiculously important! You are! I promise! And I'm so glad you're here! :D
> 
> I'm so sorry, this chapter didn't quite make it out as soon as I'd hoped. :/ I've been picking up extra hours at work. Gotta pay them bills!!! 
> 
> And look at that!! There's only one more chapter in this part!! Oh my goodness!! Such excite!! Many happiness!! Much awesome!!
> 
> Wow!!
> 
> Enjoy, my friends!! :D

Scott stared at the body on the Winchester's living room couch in a daze. 

This was the man who had watched him and Stiles when they were kids, when Scott's mom had been dragged back to the hospital to fill a shift. 

_“You boys want to go to the zoo today?”_

_“Yeah! The zoo sounds great, Mr. Winchester!”_

He'd made them PB&J sandwiches, remembering that Scott liked crunchy peanut butter instead of creamy. 

_“Let me know if there's too much or not enough on there, okay Scott?”_

_“Thanks, Mr. Winchester! It's perfect.”_

He'd picked them up from school and dropped them off at lacrosse practice and been to every game, cheering them both on whether they played or sat on the bench.

_“I wish you boys had picked a sport that wasn't quite so...physical.”_

_“They're all pretty physical, Mr. Winchester.”_

Scott remembered all these things and stared. 

He'd gotten too used to the idea that death couldn't touch them, was something they could brush off and walk away from. But seeing this man, cold and lifeless, on the Winchester's couch was enough to shake him. Castiel had been powerful. And smart. And caring. 

And if someone like him could die, then it could happen to any of them. 

The teen swallowed and closed his eyes, concentrating instead on the conversation that was happening in the kitchen.

0 o 0 o 0

Dean could still taste copper on his tongue, could still feel Cas's warmth slipping away in his arms. He shook his head and swallowed hard.

“Dean,” Sam said, and the older Winchester clenched his teeth. “It's okay to take a step back from this. If you need some time—” 

“We finish this,” Dean said sharply. He couldn't stop. If he stopped, he would start to think. About everything. And he couldn't do that—not yet.

There was still work to do.

“Okay,” Gabe said, breaking the tension between the brothers. His lips were drawn into a tight, grim line. He hadn't spoken a word since the loft. “What do we do?”

There was a pause before Dean spoke. “We need the Colt,” he said, wincing at the looks he received.

“You know where it is?” Sam asked almost accusingly.

Dean hesitated. “Cas hid it back when he still had all his grace...It's in hell.”

“Cas went to hell,” Gabe said, something dangerous simmering just below his tone, “to hide your shitty toy gun?”

“It was his idea,” Dean said lamely, running a hand through his peppered hair. He felt tired, worn down. 

_Old._

“How do we get it?” Sam crossed his arms and studied Dean pensively. He didn't look happy. “And even _if_ we get it, what are we supposed to do about bullets?”

“There are a few bullets stashed with the gun. And Cas made sure there'd only be one person who could get to the Colt,” Dean explained, ignoring the twin looks of disapproval. “We're gonna need Crowley.”

Sam and Gabe shared a long-suffering look. Dean wanted to be angry about that but had neither the patience nor the energy. The plan wasn't solid. But they didn't have a helluva lot of choices. 

“Okay,” Sam sighed, throwing a hand up in surrender. “Fine. We'll summon Crowley. But Dean...” The younger man hesitated, and Dean huffed in agitation. 

“Spit it out, Sammy.”

Sam looked hurt, but he took a shallow breath and said quietly, “What do you want to do with Cas?”

Dean didn't know. 

Didn't care.

It didn't matter.

Cas was gone. 

What would he care about his body? Not even his body, really. A borrowed husk.

One that Dean knew every inch of...

“Stage something,” he blurted in an attempt to get his thoughts back on track. “I don't care what. It has to be an accident.”

Sam looked like he might be sick. Gabe looked furious.

“Dean,” the angel started, eyes dark. 

“Well, we can't just bury him in the backyard, can we?” Dean snapped, pacing the kitchen. “Light up a damn pyre in the street?” He swallowed and grabbed the back of a dining room chair, leaning on it heavily. Fuck, how had he ever done anything without Cas at his side? This was absolute agony. “He was...important here. He was _someone_ in Beacon Hills.” He closed his eyes, fighting the sting of tears behind them. “People are gonna notice he's gone. So we have to...”

“Give him a funeral,” Sam finished softly in understanding, and Dean looked up, hoping his gaze expressed his gratitude. “A real one.”

Gabe sighed, seeming to deflate. “I'll take care of it.”

“Thanks, Gabe,” Dean said with a nod. 

The angel faltered. “Do you want a moment with him?”

Dean did. He wanted several moments with his husband—a lifetime's worth. He was owed that. But he also wanted the angel alive and warm and safe. 

And that wasn't going to happen. 

So he shook his head, dragging in a ragged breath and saying, “Sam, will you get what we need from upstairs? I'll set things up in the basement.”

Sam nodded and started towards the stairs, Gabriel disappearing with a sharp gust of wind. Dean wiped a hand over his tired face, allowing himself a deep, painful breath before leaving the dining room and making his way down the hall towards the basement door. 

His fingers curled around the knob when Gabe suddenly said his name from the living room. The hunter faltered, lips pursed as he turned and took the few steps to the room where his husband's body lay. Gabe gave him a withering look as he gestured towards a figure that sat opposite the couch where Cas was. 

“Scott?” Dean asked carefully, wary of the distant look in the teen's eyes. When had he even gotten there? Dean had told the pack to stay at Derek's loft. 

Scott's gaze shifted, and Dean saw the tears on his face, welling in his eyes. The teen sniffled and wiped his nose. “He called me,” he said absently, swallowing thickly and taking a quick breath. His bottom lip trembled as his mouth twisted. “Yesterday, I think. He wanted to know how Stiles was. And he asked me how my mom was doing.” He closed his eyes. “He said he wanted us to come over for dinner soon. We haven't for a while, you know? Been...busy.”

Dean sighed. “Scott—” 

“He was a good dad,” Scott said, a choked noise escaping him. “Stiles always said that, and I didn't have a dad around much, so you and Castiel...He was a good dad.” The teen looked up at him again, eyes wide and shining. “And you, too.”

Dean bit the inside of his cheek, looking to Scott's hands and the object clutched in them. It was one of Cas's old scarves. He hadn't seen it in years, but he recognized it right away, could almost smell Cas coming off of it. 

Scott followed his gaze. “He gave it to me,” he explained, grip tightening as if it might try to leave if he let go. “I forgot mine one time, and it was cold out. He...He took it off and wrapped it around me and told me to stay warm. I-I tried to give it back, but he...” Scott stood, holding the scarf out towards the older man with shaking fingers. 

Dean shook his head, stepping forward and pulling Scott into tight hug. “It's okay,” the hunter said, letting the kid sob into his shirt. “It's all right, Scotty.”

He chanced a glance at Gabe, and his gaze fell on his husband. He was so still, so quiet. 

It wasn't him. 

Cas was gone. He wouldn't be coming back. And Dean would be alone. 

_No. Not alone,_ a voice in his head that sounded a lot like Cas said. _You have Stiles. You still have our son._

Dean sighed and looked at Gabe again, nodding before the angel stepped forward and pressed two fingers to Cas's forehead. 

And with a quiet whisper of wings, his husband was gone.

0 o 0 o 0

Sam finished the summoning ritual and glanced at his brother as flames sparked from the bowl and settled into a smoldering ash. There were many things going through the younger man's mind, not the least of which was wondering about Dean's mental state. Cas's death had clearly shaken him, _all_ of them, but it was the way of hunters to continue on, to keep going until the job was done. Grieving had always been a luxury. But this felt wrong, letting Cas slip through the cracks. He deserved so much more. 

Both Winchesters stayed quiet for several minutes before a dark, accented voice echoed through the dark space. 

“Well, well. Moose and Squirrel back at it again.” Crowley stepped forward into the small amount of light filtering through the basement window. It was nearly dawn. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Dean scowled and crossed his arms. “You're holding something for us.”

The demon pursed his lips, warily glancing between the two of them. “I am,” he admitted, squaring his shoulders and taking a quick breath. “But you're all out of favors, I'm afraid. We're even, boys. I don't owe you anything.”

“Then I'm calling in a favor for Cas,” Dean said roughly. “You owe him more than enough.”

Crowley huffed in annoyance, looking perturbed by the information. “Fine. But this is the last time I scrape your sorry asses off the proverbial highway.” His gaze shifted uncertainly around the small space. “Where _is_ your angelic half, anyway?”

Sam watched Dean's fists clench and felt his stomach do the same.

“Dead,” his brother said curtly. 

Crowley paused, an eyebrow rising as he looked to Sam for confirmation. Sam could do no more than clench his jaw. “Dead?” he asked, tone holding the slightest bit of incredulity. 

“You gonna get what we need or aren't you?” Dean barked.

Crowley had the decency to keep his mouth shut for all of three seconds. Sam could see the questions in the demon's eyes and cleared his throat softly when it looked like he might actually ask about it, shaking his head to deter him. Dean was right—they didn't have time. They couldn't dwell—not yet. If they stopped now...Sam wasn't altogether sure that Dean would ever be able to start again.

“Sure,” Crowley acquiesced quietly, looking back to Dean with guarded eyes. “Been a minute since I buried it, but I can find it.”

Dean didn't say anything, so Sam took a breath and nodded. “Hurry.”

“Lickety-split,” the demon said nonchalantly, disappearing without so much a s a puff of wind. 

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles could hear himself screaming in his own head, clawing at the backs of his eyes and sobbing himself hoarse.

_Dad!_

But he couldn't bring himself to care. 

_Daddy!_

To put up a fight. 

_You killed him!_

Not with Azazel breathing words of destruction in his ear. 

_What did you do?_

The demon's presence folded around him like a blanket, muffling the outside world. 

_No!_

Distantly, he recalled seeing Castiel die.

_They're going to kill you, you son of a bitch!_

Remembers the anger that had coursed through his veins as he'd killed him. 

_They're going to find you, and when they're done putting an end to Azazel, you're dead!_

He'd killed him. 

_Fuck you!_

The man who had put bandaids on scrapes. 

_FUCK YOU!_

And tucked him in at night. 

_Pop's alone because of you!_

And let him sleep in his bed when he had nightmares. 

_He'll never forgive you!_

He was gone. 

_Because you're a weak piece of shit!_

Gone. He could feel it, the absence of his father. 

_Fight back, you stupid fuck! FIGHT._

Stiles choked, and the tears started, the fury rose. Azazel fumed, stomping down his emotions until he felt empty again. 

Good. 

If the demon could make him feel nothing, then Stiles would gladly stay with him. 

If only to forget the pain. 

0 o 0 o 0

It was thirty minutes before Crowley returned to the Winchester's basement. Sam had been pacing like a caged animal, but Dean couldn't bear to move. Everything ached, and every twitch and muscle spasm only brought more pain—not physical but mental, emotional. 

The house held memories, moments.

Every step was laughter he would never hear. Every brush of a shoulder against a wall was a smile he would never see. Every touch of the kitchen counter top was a breath that would no longer be taken. 

Already his husband's smell was slipping his mind. He'd found out a long time ago that an angel's scent was different to every person. Sam had always claimed Cas smelled like a sweet, salty beach breeze (his pansy-ass words, of course). When Stiles was growing up, he'd giggled and said _Daddy smells like cookies!_ As the teen grew older, he admitted it was less of a cookie scent and more just their kitchen in general. 

_He smells like the house._

_The house?_

_Yeah. Like...home._

Dean tried to remember what home smelled like, what _Cas_ had smelled like, and found himself growing increasingly frustrated when he couldn't. Mostly because he'd smelled like so many things. 

His hair always held the strong scent of Dean's shampoo—Cas never bothered to find his own brand. 

His skin was sweet and tangy sunshine. 

His clothes were soft cotton and laundry detergent.

Those were Cas. All of them, and Dean couldn't imagine ever smelling them the same way without his husband. 

“I have a new appreciation for the fear of hellhounds,” Crowley said breathlessly, looking more than a little harried as he suddenly appeared in the basement again. 

Dean stepped forward, taking the object wrapped in a tattered black cloth. He pushed it aside carefully and stared down at the gun that had once been so familiar in his hands. Something in his gut tugged, then settled, as if part of him rejoiced at the reunion. 

Beneath the Colt, there lay three bullets. “There were more than this,” Dean groused as the corners of his mouth pulled his lips thin. With their luck, they'd need more than three to get the job done. 

Crowley rolled his eyes and made and exasperated gesture. “it's all I could grab while _running for my life_.”

“You were seen?” Sam asked from behind the older hunter. 

“Azazel, apparently, got word that the Colt was lying in wait for you boys. Had everyone in a tizzy looking for it.” The demon shoved his hands in his pockets, looking somewhat smug. “I managed to nab it and skip out before they could get to me.”

“But Azazel knows we have it,” Dean said, eyes narrowing as several thoughts ran through his head. 

Crowley pursed his lips. “I think nearly being hellhound chow makes us square, yeah?” He was gone before Dean could answer. Which was fine. If Dean never saw the demon again, it would be too soon. 

“What now?” Sam said after a moment of quiet fell between them, and Dean turned, tucking the bullets into his pocket and folding the cloth over the Colt. 

“We wait. If Azazel knows we have the Colt, he'll come looking for us.,” the older man said. His cellphone chimed an alert for a text message, and he dug it out of his pocket, glancing over it absently. “Derek needs us at the loft. He says they might have a way to...snap Stiles out of it.” He could feel his face hardening as he put his phone away, starting towards the basement stairs. 

“Dean,” his brother started, but Dean didn't acknowledge it.

He didn't want to hear that it wasn't Stiles who had killed Cas. Or that Stiles was still his son. Or that his husband's dying wish was to get their son _back_. 

He'd been telling himself the same things over and over. 

And they still sounded wrong. 

0 o 0 o 0

Derek lay in the dark of his apartment and tried not to think about the blood pooling around his pain-riddled body.

The pack had been antsy, unable to settle while the Winchesters handled things the way that Winchesters did—alone. And with very little communication. There had to be something they could do to occupy themselves.

Derek had called Deaton, and the man had very quickly suggested researching the children of demons. He told Derek he would call back, but that was nearly an hour ago, and Derek's phone had rung three times since Azazel had shown up with Lawrence and Stiles and thrown everything into chaos. Azazel had made Stiles send a text to Dean to lure the hunters to the loft, and Derek could only pray that they knew what they were falling into.

Scott and the others were currently plastered to the walls, held there by a force they couldn't see and kept fighting against. Derek wanted to tell them to stop, to save their energy for when the Winchesters arrived and really turned things to shit. But he was still preoccupied watching ripple after ripple make its way through his blood with every shallow breath. 

Wolfsbane crept through his body, tore into his veins. His insides felt like they were on fire, but a chill settled over him that made him shiver. His vision was beginning to wane, but he could see Stiles standing across the room, eyes pitch black. The teen wavered on his feet unsteadily, a bloody knife clutched loosely in his hand. 

There was a loud _bang_ as the loft door slid open, and suddenly the Winchesters were there, guns drawn and a determined heat in their eyes. 

“Derek?” Dean called gruffly as Sam searched for a light switch. When the younger man found it and flipped it, Dean's gaze swiveled around the room and landed on him, eyebrows raising as he started towards him. Derek opened his mouth to warn him off, one hand sliding through his congealing blood, but he was too late. Lawrence was too fast, grabbing Dean and holding him up by his neck until the hunter was forced to drop his gun and grab onto the werewolf's arm to keep from suffocating. 

Sam's gun went off several times, and Lawrence staggered from the shots but still remained standing, glaring at the other hunter with deep red eyes. Sam was, suddenly, thrown back against the wall, plastered there like the others and struggling against the invisible force in vain.

“Now, now, gentlemen,” Azazel said, his footsteps echoing on the floorboards in a slow, steady rhythm as he stepped around Derek. “There's no need for any of this. We all know why we're here.” Derek saw the demon nod out of the corner of his eye, and Lawrence fished something covered in a black cloth from the back of Dean's waistband, dropping the hunter to the ground but not releasing the grip on his neck. Azazel stepped forward, eyes shining and a wide, frightening grin on his face as he reached for the object.

Derek squinted, begging his vision to hold for just a bit longer, as the demon uncovered what looked like an old gun. It was rusted, and there was some sort of design etched into the wooden handle. Derek would have written it off as a piece of junk if he'd seen it anywhere else. But the way that Azazel ran his fingers over it almost reverently suggested it was something important, something that he'd been wanting for a long time. 

The demon stretched a hand out, motioning Stiles to come towards him, and Derek's gut clenched as the teen staggered towards him uncertainly, like he was obeying but still trying to fight.

_Fight, Stiles. Pleasepleaseplease fight._

Derek watched Dean study the young man as he made his way forward, his gaze wandering over him darkly as his gaze settled on the bloody knife. He didn't blame Stiles, did he? For Castiel's death? They were all there—they saw Azazel manipulate the teen. Stiles obviously wasn't Stiles, and there was no way he would have killed his own father had he been in control of himself...

...Right?

Dean was staring at Stiles like he was a monster, like he was a hunt and nothing more. That wasn't right. That wasn't _right_. Stiles was still in there. Stiles was still his son. Dean was still grieving, still thinking of Cas's death.

But if he'd gotten here and been able to kill Azazel, would he have turned his gun on Stiles?

Derek blinked the thoughts away and watched as the demon took the blade from Stiles' fingers and replaced it with the gun, motioning Lawrence to bring Dean forward. The werewolf did, tightening his grip as Dean struggled and holding the hunter still a few feet from them. 

Azazel held his hand out and said, “Bullets.” Dean didn't move, even when Lawrence jerked him hard enough to make the man wince. The demon made a quick movement, and the blade was pressed against Stiles' neck. Derek growled, the noise barely a gurgle, and pushed weakly against the floor. He managed to raise himself about an inch before his fingers slipped and he fell back into the thick puddle of blood. No one looked at him. No one moved.

What was Dean doing? Did he see Azazel was bluffing? Or did he really not care that his son's life was in danger?

“Bullets,” the demon said again, and this time something flashed across Dean's eyes before the hunter reached into his front pocket and pulled out two bullets. Azazel turned Stiles to face Dean, pressing himself against the teen's back. “Take them and load it,” he breathed into the teen's ear. 

Stiles hesitated, distant gaze staring intently at the bullets in his father's hand before he reached out, long fingers brushing against Dean's palm before taking both bullets. With a practiced ease, he pushed the cylinder open and pressed the bullets into the empty chamber, then closed it. Azazel's fingers slowly slid along Stiles' arm, cupping the hand that held the gun and gently raising it until the muzzle was pointed at Dean's head. 

“Shoot.”

Derek's stomach flipped. 

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles felt the gun in his hand. The metal was warm, and the grip molded to his palm like it was meant for him. 

_No._

He stared down the barrel at his dad, finding the man glaring back at him. His eyes were dark and angry and full resentment. Heartache. Hurt. 

_Waitwaitwait..._

He felt Azazel press his cheek to the side of his head, felt lips against his ear. “Shoot, Stiles.”

_But it's Pop. It's Pop!_

His finger twitched on the trigger, and he gasped as the demon's hands gripped his hips hard enough to leave bruises. “You don't need him.”

_You do. You so, so do!_

“He's not your father.” 

_He raised you. He taught you so much._

“Shoot him, Stiles. And then you'll be free.”

_He loves you..._

_You have to fight. For him._

_For Dad. For Derek._

_For your friends._

Azazel huffed a hot breath across his cheek. “Shoot him and rule this new world with me, son.”

_You're not his son._

_Pleasepleaseplease..._

_Please..._

Stiles felt a sudden twinge of pressure, then a painful snap, then...blessed release. He took a quick, shallow breath as his vision cleared, as his mind opened, as the tightness in his chest loosened and he could breathe. 

He could breathe. 

He was free.

The teen let the tears stinging his eyes slip loose, watching as his father's hard look faltered. 

_'I'm sorry,'_ he mouthed, before quickly flipping the gun in his hand and shoving the barrel into his own mouth. His Pop's wide, horrified eyes were the last thing he saw before he pulled the trigger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hhhhhhhhhhhoboy...
> 
> I do hope you guys can forgive me for these crazy cliffhangers...but I just can't help myself. One more chapter!! Then onto the next (AND FINAL!!!!) part of this series!!! Oh my goodness, oh my goodness!!!!! 
> 
> Stay tuuuuuuuned, my beautiful friends!!! I'll see you soon!!!


	7. At Every Occasion I'll Be Ready

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The funeral was nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my goodness!! Look at us!! Here at the last chapter of another part!! I'm so excited, you guys!!
> 
> You look so wonderful today!! I'm so glad you could be here!! :D
> 
> Thank you so very much for sticking with me this round!! I'll try to update a little quicker with the next (AND FINAL) part of this series!! I'm really excited to get started!!
> 
> Enjoy, my friends!!

Stiles opened his eyes.

There was sand between his toes, gritty and damp. There was sand all around him, actually. He was on a beach, one that he recognized. 

“Stiles!” a voice called from a short distance away, nearly carried off by the breeze wafting in from the ocean. The teen's stomach clenched. Because he recognized the voice, too. “You'll get sunburn if you aren't careful.”

Stiles turned, throat closing as the source of the voice approached him. “Dad?” he choked when the angel stopped mere inches from him and raised a tube of sunscreen with a patient smile. 

“Here, let me help you.”

The teen could barely speak, didn't know what to say. He hadn't been to this beach since he was ten-years-old. And this... _memory_? This memory was one of his favorites. “Dad, I—” 

“All done,” Castiel said with a chuckle. “Go play, Stiles. But not too far. Make sure your father and I can see you.”

Stiles' gaze flicked over his dad's shoulder, finding his pop sitting on a blanket with some sort of car magazine. 

“I don't—” His dad was turning away, walking back towards Dean. “Dad, wait!” He reached out, desperate to keep the angel in sight for just a moment longer. 

“It's not your dad, Stiles,” a voice from behind him said, and the teen turned, taking a step back as he stared at the stranger. He was short—about Uncle Gabe's height—and he sported a scruffy beard. His eyes were bright, but tired-looking. Stiles could swear he'd seen him before. 

“Who are you?” the teen asked cautiously. He'd had enough of people popping up out of nowhere, trapping him in dream-comas, and controlling his every move. 

He just wanted to be himself for a change. 

“My name's Chuck.” the man said, shoulders hunching like he was apologizing about...himself. “I'm a prophet.”

Stiles' thoughts short-circuited for a moment. “ _You're_ the prophet Chuck?” he asked incredulously. “You're _Carver Edlund_? The author of the _Supernatural_ books?”

Chuck winced. “Yeah. Not my best work, to be honest.”

The teen blinked. Several questions popped into his head, but the most prominent, and possibly the most irrelevant, one slipped out before he could stop himself. “What are you doing here?”

Chuck sighed, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking around with interest. “I'm supposed to talk to you, I think. Answer some questions. I was told you have an abundance of those.”

“I do,” Stiles admitted, shivering as a breeze cooled his sun-warmed skin. He was bare from the waist up, wearing only a pair of blue swim trunks with some sort of cartoon character that had been popular when he was younger. He didn't mind the outerwear; he felt surprisingly comfortable for being half-naked in front of a not-quite-complete stranger. “Am I dead?”

“Um,” Chuck said, shifting on the sand. “You're not _not_ dead. But you're not quiet...dead?”

Stiles huffed. “That's not really enlightening.”

“Yeah, I know,” the other man said with a sheepish smile. “I'm not really that great with words.”

The teen nodded in understanding. “Writing's hard, huh?”

“See? People don't get that!” Chuck said, gesturing excitedly then clearing his throat and waiting for Stiles' next question. 

“Can I see my dad?” The young man looked over his shoulder, staring at his parents with longing. “My real dad?”

Chuck sighed again, and the teen turned to find another apologetic look on his face. “Sorry.” He shook his head. “Castiel is in his own part of heaven. You can't...You wouldn't be able to go there.”

Stiles' shoulders slumped. “Why not?”

“You aren't, um...” Chuck looked up over the teen's head as he searched for the words. “Compatible? I guess that fits.” He shrugged. 

“I'm not compatible,” Stiles repeated tonelessly, the pit of his stomach twisting. “Not compatible with...heaven?”

“It's not that you aren't a good person,” Chuck was quick to say, holding his hands out placatingly. 

“But I'm not, am I?” Stiles said, voice hollow. He felt something in his chest give a sharp, cold pang. “I can't be. I'm evil. I don't belong here.”

“No,” Chuck said firmly, stepping forward and placing his hands on the teen's shoulders. Stiles watched as the man's somewhat nervous demeanor disappeared, replaced by an urgent determination. “Stiles, that's not it. I _promise_ that's not it.”

Tears pricked at the back of the teen's eyes, and his chest shuddered as he took a breath. “Then where do I go? Where does someone like me belong?”

The older man's features softened, and he offered a gentle smile. “You belong with the person you love.” He gave Stiles' shoulders a squeeze, and the teen felt some of his anxiety ebb. “You belong with Derek. Trust me, I know a thing or two about butting into peoples' lives.” Stiles laughed half-heartedly and sniffed, wiping at his nose and feeling very much like the ten-year-old of this particular memory. “You belong with Derek. And Derek belongs with his family.”

“In the _Elysian Fields_ ,” Stiles said as understanding dawned on him. “I'll follow Derek there.”

“When your time comes, yeah,” Chuck said, releasing the teen's bare shoulders. He looked at his hands and frowned, wiping sunscreen onto his jeans. 

Stiles couldn't help the bark of laughter than escaped him. “Sorry. Dad always went a little overboard.” The smile on his face waned, and he looked back at his parents again. “I won't ever get to see him again.” Chuck was silent, and Stiles turned. “Will I?”

The older man pursed his lips. “Castiel's time on earth is over,” he said carefully, but the look on his face made something hopeful and warm bloom in the teen's chest. “But if the Winchesters taught me anything, it was to expect the unexpected.”

“Very prophetic,” Stiles said, one corner of his mouth twitching.

Chuck shrugged like it couldn't be helped. “Listen...This probably goes against some sort of prophet code, or something...”

“There's a prophet code?”

“I don't know,” the older man admitted. “Probably. What I _do_ know is that things are going to be a little shaky for a while.” 

“I figured,” Stiles said quietly.

“Not because of you,” Chuck assured him. “I know it's going to feel like your whole world is crumbling down—” 

_Understatement._

“—and that everyone is against you—” 

_Vast understatement._

“—but I need you to do me a favor and...stick it out.”

Stiles took in a deep breath and released it in a quick gust. “It's gonna hurt. Right?”

Chuck offered a sympathetic look. “For a little while. Loss is always painful.”

Stiles swallowed. “And the part of myself I can't control? That...darkness? What do I do about that?”

“Temptation seems to run pretty deep in your family.” Chuck smirked. “But you're a Winchester. You'll get through it.”

With a nod, the teen looked down at his bare feet, watched his toes dig further into the sand. “Can I ask just a couple more questions?” He could feel something in the back of his thoughts tugging at him, heard the gentle call of his name. 

_Derek._

Derek wanted him to come back. But he couldn't—not yet. 

“Sure,” Chuck conceded, head tilting as if he were listening to a voice of his own. “We've got a little time.”

Stiles nodded. “Why did my dad make me kill him?” Stiles wasn't stupid—he was an idiot sometimes, but he wasn't stupid. He knew provocation when he saw it, had done it countless times to keep his family and friends safe. 

His dad had goaded him, the _demon_ him. He'd made Stiles turn his dark sights on himself. He must have known the outcome—that the teen would kill him. 

But...

“Why?”

Chuck looked sad, his shoulders falling as he sighed. “That...is an extremely loaded question with an extremely loaded answer.” The older man looked away for a second. “I think he always knew it would be you and Dean that needed one another.”

When Chuck paused, Stiles shook his head. “I don't understand.” Stiles and Dean fought more than they ever got along. Yeah, it was mostly _teen-vs-parent_ bullshit, but Stiles can't remember ever fighting with Castiel the way he had with Dean.

Chuck licked his lips and squinted at the air, like the answer was somewhere in front of him and he needed to find it. “When Dean was gone, and you separated yourself from Derek...how did you feel?”

Stiles frowned as he fought to remember. “Alone, mostly. I mean, I knew my dad was there, but...”

Chuck nodded. “You and Cas, neither of you made that connection that you needed to heal. If things had continued that way, without Dean, you both would have drifted apart.” A thoughtful look crossed the man's face. “Not that he didn't love you, Stiles. Your father loved you very much. _Still_ loves you.”

Stiles' throat clicked as he swallowed. “I know.”

“It's just that...He knew the connection, the _bond_ you needed was between you and Dean. It's stronger. You're both survivors. And you'll need each other to get through the worst of whatever comes.”

Stiles closed his eyes. “He must hate me. So much.”

“He doesn't,” the prophet said with a quick shake of his head. “I know it feels that way, but he really, _really_ doesn't, Stiles. He's just angry. Hurt.”

“But I did that,” Stiles argued. “I'm the reason he's angry and hurt.”

Chuck was shaking his head again before the teen finished his sentence. “ _Azazel_ is the reason. Dean knows that. But he has a habit of confusing his grief with hatred.”

“Towards me.”

“Towards _everyone_. And he'll need you to show him he's not alone.” Chuck studied the teen's face. “Can you do that?”

Stiles bit the inside of his cheek. “I don't know.”

The prophet smiled. “Your dad knows you can. Just remember that.” He paused, looking thoughtful again. “One last question. What do you got?”

The teen wracked his brain. “Chuck,” he said quietly, staring at the man intensely and building the courage to ask the question his parents and uncles still asked themselves when the subject unearthed itself. “Are you God?”

Chuck laughed and gave him an answer he was sure his pop would appreciate.

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles woke...and screamed.

When voices called his name, he clenched his eyes shut. When hands tried to hold him, he lashed out. When someone begged him to stop, he sobbed and wailed and screamed louder. 

_Devastation._

He'd been trying to fight his way free so long, he barely knew how to pull himself back together. His whole world had crashed down around him. He wanted— _needed_ —to force all the darkness festering within him _out_. 

“Stiles!” Derek's voice broke through the pained and ruined thing he'd turned himself into, and he wheezed in as deep a breath as his seizing lungs would allow.

“Just let me go,” he pleaded, cried, prayed. “Just let me go. Just let me go. Please, please, please let me go.”

“Stiles,” Derek said, tone soft and kind and awful. “You're out, you're safe. I've got you.” 

He didn't understand. Stiles knew he was out, knew he was with his friends and family. But he wasn't free. 

Not yet. 

He opened his eyes, puffy from crying, and stared at his mate's worried, beautiful, horrible face. “Just let me go,” he said, his voice hoarse and broken. “Let me go, Derek. Let me go, let me go.”

Derek's grip on him tightened, and he shook his head fiercely. “No,” he growled, seeming angry that the teen would even ask him such a thing. “No, I won't. Never, Stiles. Not ever.”

Stiles huffed, his head feeling heavy and unsteady on his neck. Derek tried to pull him forward, to wrap his arms around him, but the teen put his hands up, pressed them to warm, unrelenting skin and pushed. He had no strength, but the older man didn't force him.

“I'm—” Stiles swallowed with a wince, took a shuddering breath, tried again. “I'm not safe. I'm not safe to be around.” His vision swam, but he tried to center in on Derek's face. “I'll kill you.” Tears burned a trail down his cheeks, and he choked on a sob. “I love you, Derek. I love you, but I'll kill you.”

“You won't,” Derek insisted, shaking his head for emphasis. “Azazel's gone. You're safe, he can't get to you anymore.”

Stiles trembled, his head falling forward onto the man's shoulder. “He's still—He's still here,” he cried weakly. “I can feel him, I can feel him, I can _feel him_.” He raised his head and whimpered, let the waves of dizziness wash over him. “He's too strong. I can't fight. I can't fight him. It hurts _so much_.” He was sobbing again, his breaths coming in quick, shuddered bursts that made him light-headed. “Just let me go, _pleasepleaseplease_.” 

“Stiles...” 

The teen drew in an agonizing breath that stretched his chest to bursting and forced himself to focus on Derek. He looked hesitant, anxious. There was something clenched in his fist, and when he finally opened his hand, Stiles' eyebrows rose.

“That's my ring,” he said, voice small and cracked as he looked up at the older man's pensive face. 

Derek swallowed hard. “I asked Deaton to find something that would help you...stay in control.” 

“What do you mean?”

Derek rolled the object in his fingers restlessly, glancing towards the closed bedroom door. Stiles saw the shadow of someone one the other side from under it, and he wondered who it was. Was it his Pop? Standing at the ready in case Stiles turned out to be hell-spawn after all? 

“There's a ward in the ring,” Derek explained, pulling his attention. “Deaton put it there. When you put it on, one half of the ward suppresses your...demonic side.” 

The teen shuddered and sniffed. It couldn't possibly be that easy. “What does the other half do?”

“It adheres itself to you, to your skin. Like a brand,” Derek said. His expression was uneasy. He didn't seem to like the idea of Stiles being branded—at least not without his consent. “Even if you take the ring off, the ward will still be there. Your powers will still be bound.”

“Sounds a little too good to be true,” Stiles said, dark amusement in his tone as he stared down at the ring. His hands shook, and he swallowed nervously.

The older man sighed, letting his hand drop to his knee as he stared down at the small object. “Stiles, if you don't want to—” 

“Okay,” the teen said quickly, nodding his head when Derek looked back up at him. “Okay, yeah. I want it.”

“You sure?”

Stiles huffed and did his best to roll his eyes in mock aggravation. “It's like you don't believe me when I say _yes_. I think three proposals is enough, Derek.”

The corners of Derek's mouth twitched, but the gesture didn't reach his eyes. “I was told it'll be painful,” the werewolf admitted, grief and guilt plastered on his face. “It's temporary. But it might last a while so your body can absorb the ward and bind everything.”

“How long?” Stiles asked, the pit of his stomach twisting at the thought. It wasn't like he didn't deserve it after everything he'd done. But it was still scary, still ridiculously frightening. He hoped Derek would stay with him...

The older man took a short breath and looked down at his restless hands. “A day, I think. Maybe longer, depending on how strong your powers are. Your Uncle Gabe can make you sleep. You won't feel any pain. I promise.”

Stiles sighed heavily, closing his eyes against the feeling and leaning back against the headboard. It wasn't the pain he was entirely worried about. What if they needed his powers in the future? What if some big bad came into town that only he could get rid of? What if Azazel came back? 

Were they really sure his demonic half could only be used for evil?

“I know it's a lot to ask,” Derek said, hand sliding into the teen's and fingernails curling into his palm. “But I think it's for the best, Stiles. It'll be safer for you.”

“And everyone else,” Stiles said, attempting to keep the bitterness out of his tone as he voiced the unspoken opinion and failing. The teen was dangerous, there was no doubt. And without this ward, his family and friends wouldn't be safe. Wouldn't _feel_ safe. 

“It's not that we don't trust you,” the Alpha said carefully. 

“Why should you?” the teen asked, tone clipped as his anger surfaced. “ _I_ don't trust me. I could bring this whole town down around us with just a thought. Who the hell even wants that kind of power?”

“Plenty of people,” Derek said bluntly, the statement taking the younger man by surprise. “That's why we have to keep you safe. If anyone gets a hold of you like Azazel did...”

That was...true, Stiles had to admit. It wasn't really about him _losing_ control so much as it was him _being_ controlled. And that was apparently easier done than said.

Stiles drew in a shaky breath. “Let's just get it over with.” He held out his left hand, unable to keep the tremors at bay.

Derek took the teen's hand in his own, drawing in a breath. “Gabe,” he called gently, and the angel appeared at Stiles' bedside instantly, taking a seat opposite the werewolf. 

Stiles couldn't make himself look his uncle in the eye, and he bit his bottom lip to keep it from trembling before saying, “I...I'll understand if you don't want to.” His stomach twisted from the lack of reaction from the angel. “If you don't want to make me sleep...if you want me to feel the pain, that's fine. I deserve it, whatever's gonna happen.”

The teen startled when his uncle's cool fingers wrapped under his chin and lifted his head so that their gazes met. Uncle Gabe's eyes were hard, a little more dull than the last time Stiles saw them. But there was a fierce, determined look on his face as well. “Stiles, we don't blame you for what happened,” he said, tone quiet and firm. “You didn't kill your father. Azazel did. None of this is your fault.”

The words were simple enough. Chuck had essentially said the same exact thing. But something about the way Uncle Gabe was looking at him made fresh tears burn his eyes. And then he was falling into the angel's arms and shaking uncontrollably. He hadn't really thought it would make him feel better as much as it did—they were just words, after all. 

But they saved him from falling any further into the darkness he could feel inside him. And he could only pray that they were true.

Stiles pulled back from his uncle's arms and concentrated on breathing, feeling Derek lift his left hand. He watched as the older man slipped the ring onto his finger and carefully pushed it down to the last knuckle.

The teen sniffled. And waited.

Nothing happened.

“Are you sure—” A sudden burning stole the words from his tongue, and Stiles arched back, slamming against the headboard as the sensation spread through his body. His eyes went wide with panic and pain, and _JesusfuckingChrist_ it hurt like hell. He wanted to scream, but his voice was stuck to the back of his throat. 

The angel grasped the teen's shoulders, holding him down. For a confusing moment, Stiles thought that maybe his uncle had tricked him, had wanted him to feel safe and secure so that the pain was more intense, so that the betrayal was more potent. But Uncle Gabe's soft “I gotcha, kiddo,” before darkness blanketed him quelled his fear, and he fell into warmth and a dreamless sleep.

0 o 0 o 0

Gabriel watched Derek sit at Stiles' bedside, the werewolf running his fingers through the teen's hair over and over. It was almost hypnotic. The angel nearly lost the emotions warring within him. But they surfaced quickly when he remembered himself. 

He hated that he saw both good and evil in his nephew, that he couldn't shake the thought that he was seeing a killer inside someone he loved. 

And he did love Stiles. 

He really did.

Castiel was dead, and it was hard to fight past the voices that screamed of Stiles' guilt. But he had. And as he stood and watched Derek comfort the sleeping teen, he knew that the werewolf had been a large part of that influence. 

“He hasn't been in to see Stiles,” Derek said quietly, and Gabriel sighed.

“Derek,” he said, his voice cracking on the name. 

Derek's actions faltered. He looked up, his face drawn and somewhat pale. “He should be here.”

Gabriel rubbed his face tiredly, sighing and crossing his arms as he leaned into the door frame. “He's mourning.”

“His _son_ still needs him.”

“His _son_ killed his husband. I think it might take a while for him to recover,” the angel murmured, unsurprised when the words spurred Derek to stand and face him angrily, teeth bared in a growl.

“You know full-well he was being manipulated,” he argued.

“I do,” Gabriel conceded softly, unable to find the strength to match the other man's anger. 

“Dean's known him practically his whole life. How can he for _one second_ think that Stiles would have intentionally killed Castiel? His _father_. The man who raised him.” Derek began to pace restlessly. “How can he just abandon him like this?”

Gabriel felt his gut twist with guilt. He couldn't exactly deny anything Derek had said. Dean hadn't stepped foot into the room since they'd returned from the loft. 

0 o _Several Hours Earlier_ o 0

_Derek slipped and slid in his own puddle of blood, a look of horror plastered on his face as he attempted to get to Stiles' motionless body. The teen lay in a heap beside the writhing form of Azazel, who screamed in agony. Blood gushed from his left eye and right temple. The bullet that Stiles had shot himself with had gone through his skull and straight into the demon's. Granted, it hadn't killed Azazel, but it gave Dean enough time to break free of Lawrence, snatch the Colt from his son's lifeless hand and aim it at the demon's head._

_He didn't bother with a last line, one last gut-punch to seal the deal. Dean merely pulled the trigger in Azazel's rage-filled face, barely blinking as blood spattered his own face and neck. The demon fell back against the floor with one last jolt, frighteningly still as his blood pooled around him like a halo._

_The hold on the other werewolves and Sam fell away, and the group fell to the floor in exhaustion, tired from fighting against it for so long. The Colt dropped from Dean's hand with a loud clatter, and he stared dazedly at the two figures lying at his feet. First Azazel, then Stiles. He sank to his knees, fingers reaching out deftly to clutch at the teen's bare shoulders, coasting down his arms like he couldn't believe he was really seeing his dead son in front of him. When his fingers reached his wrist, he held them there, looking as if he might be praying._

_Whether he was hoping to find a pulse or not, no one was quite sure, but the agony that crossed his face as he realized that Stiles was really dead said enough. His hands fluttered up to the teen's face, hovering but not touching. Stiles' eyes were still open, wide and unseeing and_ deaddeaddead.

_Gabriel, suddenly, appeared at Dean's side, a similar look taking his face as his gaze fell over the teen._

_“Not him, too,” Dean whispered, breaths coming fast and labored as he looked over his shoulder at the angel. “Not him, Gabe. I can't...I can't...”_

_Gabriel nodded quickly. “I'll take care of it,” he promised, reaching forward towards Stiles' head. Dean's hand darted out, fingers wrapping around the angel's wrist just before he was able to touch the teen's forehead. They shared a solemn look, Gabriel breaking free of the man's grip easily and pressing two fingers to Stiles' temple._

_Almost immediately, Stiles dragged in a deep, awful breath, eyes swiveling madly in their sockets. He shook badly, his body wracked with tremors that became worse with every breath._

_“Stiles? Can you hear me?” Gabriel asked, but the teen didn't respond. His fingers curled, his jaw clenched, his body seized. The angel reached out and touched his fingers to the teen's temple again, and Stiles fell slack, eyes closing and breathing evening out._

_“What happened?” Dean demanded, glancing just past the angel and grinding his teeth as Derek's weak crawling caught his eye. It really couldn't even be considered crawling anymore, at that point. He was barely lifting himself up a fraction of an inch before falling back down into the same blood-slick spot on the floor. Dean grabbed Gabriel's arm and twisted him towards the werewolf. “Help him.”_

_The angel gave Derek a weary look, standing and walking towards him quickly before crouching at the dying man's side._

_“Stiles,” Derek wheezed, choking as his vision began to tunnel. “St—”_

_“Calm down, lover boy,” Gabriel murmured, fingers fixing themselves to Derek's temple. It took a moment longer than it might normally, but the angel was exhausted. Having to deal with his brother's body, bringing Stiles back to life. He wasn't full of an endless supply of mojo._

_Derek gasped as the pain left him, allowing himself only a moment of awe before scrambling to his feet and finding his way to Stiles' side. He scooped the teen up in his arms, holding him against his chest and breathing in the beautiful scent that was only Stiles._

_With desperate eyes, he looked at Dean, then to Gabriel. “What's wrong? What's wrong with him?”_

_Gabriel's shoulders slumped, and he rubbed tiredly at his face before leaning down beside them. “He's not there,” he said softly, holding up a hand as more questions filled their eyes and taking a shuddering breath. “He's alive. But he...He isn't back.”_

_“That doesn't make sense, Gabe,” Dean ground out, and the angel gave him an aggravated look._

_“I know it doesn't,” he said, “but I can't do anything about it. Right now, Stiles' body is alive. But his soul—who he is—just isn't_ there. _And where ever he is, I can't reach him. He has to come back on his own.”_

_“So what do we do?” Derek asked, breathing harshly as he squeezed the teen closer to himself._

_Gabriel looked down at his nephew, eyebrows drawn and lips pursed. “We wait.”_

0 o Several Hours Later o 0

“He's scared,” Gabriel said simply. “We all are. Castiel is dead, and Stiles almost died. Probably still could, for all we know.” 

Derek forced his shaking fists to open, placing his hands on his hips and looking at the ground. “Do you know,” he said through clenched teeth, “what my mother asked of me? What I had to do to get out of Purgatory?” He looked up, his eyes their normal color but full of fire. “I had to promise to protect him. I had to promise to give up my own life to keep him away from harm. I thought—” He stopped abruptly, a bitter laugh bubbling up his throat. “I thought I got off easy, with what you and Dean had to give up. I thought I was _lucky_.” He shook his head, bottom lip trembling as he sucked in a shaky breath. “But here I am, having to protect him from his own fucking _family_.”

Gabriel frowned. “Derek, that's not fair.”

“I don't care,” Derek interrupted, tone just as suddenly despondent. “Dean can sit here and stew in his own hatred. As soon as Stiles wakes up, I'm taking him out of here and away from all of this.”

Gabriel's throat closed up, fear and panic taking hold. “Please, Derek...” The angel knew how resourceful the small pack could be. If Derek took Stiles away from them, away from Beacon Hills, there was very little chance they would ever be able to find them. 

Gabriel felt a presence at his shoulder and turned just as Derek's attention shifted. “Dean?”

“No one's taking anyone anywhere,” the hunter said evenly. He looked tired. No, he looked _weary_. It had barely been a day since Cas's death—the sheriff's department hadn't even discovered the accident that Gabriel had set up with his brother's body—and already Dean looked older. Was that more gray in his hair? Were there more wrinkles around his eyes?

“I'll take him if I have to,” Derek threatened, stance going rigid. “He's my mate.”

Dean's jaw tightened. His next words were quiet and unexpectedly full of what Gabe could only describe as sorrow and desperation and... _love_. “He's my son.” He looked at Gabe with hard determination. “He's our family.”

The angel felt the same determination flood his veins, flush out the anger and doubt and guilt. As much as Gabriel loathed to admit it, Dean had always been the anchor in their dysfunctional little family. He had an immense persuasive power. And while they tended to disagree (often), Dean's sole and best interest was family. It was hard to remember that sometimes when rage and blame flared amongst them.

Gabe could see now why Stiles had been so drawn to Derek—like Dean, he was family-oriented, put his pack's (and mate's) needs before all else. 

“And so are you,” Dean continued, gaze centered on Derek, who looked a little taken aback by the words. “If Stiles wakes up and wants to leave, that's fine. It's his choice.” He lowered his chin, giving the werewolf a firm stare. “But he decides. Not you. Understood?”

Derek swallowed thickly and nodded. “Understood.”

Dean nodded once, then looked at Stiles again. Gabriel could see he was torn. Despite the hunter's words, there was still hurt and a small amount of fury in his eyes. Dean almost took a step towards Stiles' bed but faltered at the last second and turned to leave. 

Gabriel and Derek fell into silence. Now all they could do was wait.

0 o 0 o 0

It was nearly a day later when the doorbell rang. 

Derek and Dean stood in the kitchen sharing a quiet moment with mugs of coffee. The werewolf tensed just before the bell sounded, and Dean's heart stuttered.

“It's the sheriff,” Derek murmured, placing his coffee on the counter. “A couple of deputies, too.”

Dean nodded solemnly, taking another sip of his coffee. He had to fight to keep it down. “They found Cas.”

Derek focused on a spot on the counter. “What...How did Gabriel..?”

“A car accident,” Dean said numbly, dredging up the story he was supposed to use. Cas had been heading to a conference in Santa Monica. He hadn't called, but that wasn't unusual. He was a very focused individual, took his work seriously. “Car veered off the road, rolled into a ditch out of sight of the highway.” He took another sip of coffee, ignoring the tremor in his hand. “Surprised they found him so fast. I was planning on having to put in a missing persons.”

The doorbell rang again, and Dean sighed, contemplating whether or not he should take the coffee with him. It gave him something to do with his hands, he decided as he stepped away from the counter and started towards the hallway that lead to the front door. 

“I'm sorry,” Derek said just before the older man stepped out of the kitchen, “that you have to do this. Deal with his death all over again.”

Dean placed a hand on the door frame and leaned into it, closing his eyes. “It's what we do.”

“It doesn't seem fair,” the werewolf admitted, voice strained. “All the good you and your family have done, and you suffer the most for it.”

Dean swallowed and opened his eyes. “Didn't sign up for 'fair,' kid.”

“Didn't really sign up at all, did you?”

Dean looked back at Derek blankly, forcing himself to smirk. “Sure didn't,” he said gruffly, shuffling down the hallways towards the front door. He let his hand rest on the doorknob for a moment, schooling his features as he'd taught himself to do so many years ago.

And with a tired huff, he twisted the knob and opened the door, giving the officers on the porch a squinty-eyed grimace. “Sheriff. What can I do for you?”

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles woke, and it was dark. 

He could tell something was off. The ring finger of his left hand throbbed dully, and he felt...weird. Not in pain. Not significantly changed. Just weird. Like there was something bubbling under his skin that needed release but couldn't quite find it. 

He lay still until his eyes adjusted, finding that the darkness wasn't because he'd been hexed or in some sort of coma or trapped in his own mind while he watched himself do horrible, awful, _terriblebad_ things.

It was dark merely because it was night. The middle of the night, from what his alarm clock said. 

Stiles breathed in the scent of his room, dust and books and that aerosol that his dad liked to spray everywhere.

...Used to spray everywhere. 

A painful sting in his chest made him gasp, and someone shifted beside him. 

“Stiles?” Derek's sleep-rough voice asked, and the teen shuddered in relief. 

“Yeah,” he whispered, shivering as warm arms wrapped around him.

“How do you feel?”

_Hollow._

_Hurt._

_Alone._

_Angry._

_Helpless._

_Exhausted._

“Fine,” Stiles sighed, burrowing his face into Derek's shoulder. “I'm fine.”

“Do you need anything?” Derek shifted so that they were pressed against each others' sides, making himself available to get up, if need be. Stiles didn't want him to get up. He didn't want to leave this warm comfort. Ever. 

But before he could say as much, his stomach rumbled in protest and hunger ( _and betrayal—rude_ ). 

“Guess I'm hungry,” the teen said after Derek chuckled. 

“I'll get you something to eat,” the older man said, starting to get up. 

Stiles clutched at Derek's sleeve. “Can I come with you?”

Derek paused. “I'll only be a few minutes.”

The teen swallowed hard and drew in a shuddering breath. “I don't want to be alone.”

There was a tense silence before Derek sighed and nodded. “Okay. But we take it slow.”

The werewolf helped him stand, and besides an initial wobble and a steady stiffness in his limbs, he felt no physical abnormalities. He was wearing a pair of baggy sweats (his) and an old T-shirt (Derek's). He breathed the smell in, letting it fill him, relax his muscles.

“You all right?” Derek asked apprehensively. 

Stiles quirked one corner of his mouth. “Yeah. I'm good.”

And he was. Until they reached the stairs. Derek offered to carry him, but Stiles was quick to refuse. 

“They're just stairs, Derek,” he sighed, taking his time as he reached the landing and concentrating on his slow but steady pace. 

As they rounded the corner to the second set of stairs, the dining room came into view, and he paused. His uncles sat at the table, Uncle Sammy with his laptop and Uncle Gabe with a mug of coffee (more cream and sugar than actual coffee, the teen guessed). 

They stared for a long moment, and Stiles' gut clenched. He wanted to go back to bed. He wanted to curl up in Derek's arms for the rest of forever.

And that was when Uncle Gabe took an extremely loud sip of coffee and smiled at him over the rim of his cup. “Hey, kiddo! Hankering for a midnight snack?”

The air in Stiles' lungs whooshed out in a gust of relief, and he smiled. “Yeah. I could definitely eat.”

He made his way down the remaining stairs, Derek a constant presence behind him, and sat in the chair that his Uncle Sammy scooched out for him with a smile. 

“What'll it be?” Uncle Gabe asked, rubbing his hands together as Derek took a seat beside him, fingers entwining with the teen's and squeezing reassuringly. 

Several things came to mind, but Stiles decided that he just _couldn't_ decide, and he shrugged. “Surprise me.”

Uncle Gabe grinned happily, and Uncle Sammy rolled his eyes with a huff as the angel raised a hand and snapped his fingers. The dinner table suddenly filled itself with sweets and desserts of several different varieties. 

Stiles was definitely _not_ surprised.

But he also definitely did not care.

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles managed to avoid his pop for another couple of days. Mostly because the teen slept all hours of the day and kept himself locked away in his room during sleepless nights. And also because his pop seemed determined to avoid him as well. 

The first time they even saw each other since Stiles had woken was the day of Castiel's funeral.

Stiles stood in the bathroom, cursing as he failed for the fourth ( _maybe the fifth_ ) time to get his tie straight. He hated formal wear. And he hated funerals. The fact that the two were mutually exclusive really didn't help his mood any. 

He would be attending a ceremony where half the people would know his father was dead because of him, while the other half tried to console him over the sudden loss. It would be painful and unbearable, and Stiles really didn't want to do it. 

He could feel beads of sweat start to form on his forehead, and he placed his hands on the edge of the sink, closing his eyes and forcing a wave of dizzy nausea down. 

“You okay?” his pop's gruff voice said, and Stiles sucked in a tight breath, eyes snapping open. The older man stood in the doorway of the bathroom, fingers absently messing with the cufflinks that Stiles recognized as ones that his dad had picked out for him. His suit was sharp and dark and form-fitting, nothing like the suits his Uncle Sammy had described to him—the second-hand ones they'd found in thrift shops to pose as FBI agents and the like. The teen's gaze stopped just short of his father's face. He couldn't bear to look him in the eye and see the anguish he knew mirrored his own. 

“My tie's crooked,” he said meekly, and the words sounded childish and stupid.

But his father stepped into the bathroom and reached toward him. “C'mere.”

Stiles obeyed without hesitation, turning and raising his chin while Dean untangled the mess he'd made his tie into. “Your father wore a tie practically everyday from the moment I met him,” the older man said softly, fingers folding and twisting the fabric delicately. “Always tied it crooked. I had to fix it every time.” Stiles caught a smirk on his pop's face as the man shook his head. “I got angry one time, asked him why he couldn't just tie his damn tie the right way.” The smirk softened into a sad smile. “He said he just liked the way I fixed it.”

Stiles felt tears sting his eyes, couldn't stop a few wayward ones from escaping. Dean finished his task and set his hands on the teen's shoulders. The grip was awkward, and he looked immensely uncomfortable with the contact, which made Stiles tense. 

The hunter took that as a cue to let him go, and he stepped back, turning into the hallway. “The service starts in a couple of hours,” he said curtly before disappearing down the stairs.

Stiles wiped at his face and sighed, staring at his neatly-done tie in the mirror.

0 o 0 o 0

The funeral was...nice. 

The pastor said nice things. The people who attended (which was many more than they'd been expecting) had nice stories to tell. The church and the flowers and the cemetery and the plot and the headstone were nice. 

The funeral was nice. 

And as Castiel's nice casket was lowered into the ground, Stiles wanted to vomit. 

0 o 0 o 0

Stiles made Derek stay at the loft that night. The werewolf hadn't been overly happy about it—they'd spent the past few days nearly joined at the hip. 

The teen argued that his pack— _their_ pack—needed him. Isaac, Erica, and Boyd had seemed ansty and lost at the funeral and the reception afterward. They needed their Alpha. And Stiles needed to reconcile with his father. 

He tried finding moments in between the chaotic stir of sympathies and the endless amounts of _If-you-need-anything_ s. But during the silent ride home, he couldn't find the words. At home, he couldn't find a moment where any of them weren't surrounded by people. Stiles thought he might find some time when everyone had finally left, maybe while they were boxing up food and cleaning the kitchen. But with a quick snap of his fingers, Uncle Gabe inadvertently threw that hope right out the window. 

And with nothing left to do, his pop announced that he was going to bed. 

Stiles' moments had passed him by. 

...Until he woke in a sweat, barely holding back a sob as he nearly tumbled out of bed. He sat and breathed heavily into the hand covering his mouth, listening intently to make sure he hadn't woken his father. And when he couldn't stand the quiet and the darkness pressing in on him any longer, he fumbled with the sheets wrapped around his legs and hurried from his bedroom. 

His feet padded along the hallway, taking him to the place that had once brought him so much comfort and now only made his stomach twist in anguish and apprehension. Standing in the doorway of his parents' bedroom, he stared into the darkness. The longer he stood, the more his eyes adjusted.

He could see his dad's nightstand, the small things he kept on it, like his watch and the stupid beaded bracelet Stiles had made him when he was five.

_It's important, Stiles. Everything you do, no matter how small you think it is, is important._

He could see his dad's dresser, all the pictures that lined the top of it, like the one they'd taken at the beach Stiles had dreamed about.

_Perhaps when your father has some time off, we'll plan another trip._

He could see his dad's side of the bed, vacant but still disheveled, like he'd just gotten up and was downstairs making them something to eat.

_You boys had better get down here and eat before everything gets cold._

Stiles closed his eyes and pretended he could hear that voice, strong and quiet and firm. The house seemed wrong without it. This place was just too big without his presence there to fill in the gaps. 

Someone shifted on the bed, and Stiles opened his eyes to find his Pop curled on top of the covers. He looked...small. His Pop had never looked small. Ever. He was supposed to be unshakeable. 

Without a word, Stiles quietly took the few steps to the bed and climbed in on his dad's side, making sure to leave a fair amount of distance between himself and the other man. “Pop?” he whispered, and his father's shoulders hunched, shook with the tension of keeping his muscles coiled so tightly.

He probably didn't want to see the teen. Ever. 

Stiles sighed and mentally berated himself. Of course his Pop wouldn't want that. He was just sad. They both were. Which was why the teen knew that they needed each other. Even if his Pop didn't know it yet. He took a deep breath, allowing the tightness in his chest to stretch painfully as he grabbed at the words he'd been told while in his memory.

“I talked to Chuck,” he said quietly, and Dean's shaking stopped abruptly, the man turning onto his back and staring at the teen hard. 

“In a dream. Or...in heaven, I guess,” Stiles clarified, and Dean continued to stare. “He told me dad can't come back.” Tears welled in the teen's eyes and fell to the pillow beneath. “That he's happy.” His breath hitched, and he closed his eyes and pressed half his face into the pillow. “And that...we need to keep being a family.” His chest tightened as he cried, as he let loose quiet, choked noises. “I want to, Pop. I want to keep being a family so bad. But...But if you don't want to...”

Suddenly there were warm arms around him, drawing him in, holding him fiercely. He gasped, having not felt this kind of relief in such a long time. He couldn't believe he'd ever felt anything else when his Pop was always right there, ready to take the brunt of his pain and sadness. They cried together for what felt like an eternity, and still it wasn't enough. Their shared grief would never abate. 

When their crying calmed, and Stiles was able to breathe without the horrible tightness clinging to his lungs, he sighed and clutched at his father's shirt. He could smell his dad's soft scent on the pillow beneath his head, mixed with the warmth of his Pop's aftershave. 

“I asked him,” he said, voice rough and quiet, “if he was God.” Dean waited quietly for Stiles to continue. “He asked me if I thought he looked like God, and I told him I didn't know because I'd never met the guy.” Stiles closed his eyes and breathed. “He said 'Me either.'” It took a moment, but the teen soon felt the shaking of his Pop's laughter, heard the deep chuckle that he remembered from before everything had gone so terribly, terrifically, terrifyingly wrong.

He would miss this, when he was married and living with Derek. The worry of what his Pop would do in such a large house all by himself sat at the back of his mind, but for now he let the older man's laughter lull him to sleep. 

They were going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a semi-happy-things-will-hopefully-get-better-everyone-just-needs-some-healing kind of ending...For the most part. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, my friends!! If you have any questions that weren't answered in this last chapter, feel free to let me know!! I'll do my best to answer them or let you know whether they'll be addressed in the FINAL PART of this series: 
> 
> (DON'T) TELL MY DADS I'M MARRYING A WEREWOLF.
> 
> I'm really, really, reeeeeaaallllyyy excited to get started here, you guys!! Thank you so much for sticking with me!! :D :D :D
> 
> I hope you all have a lovely day!! See you soon!!

**Author's Note:**

> Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!! First chapter done!! And the second one is already finished, too!! Whoa, I'm on a hot-streak!!!
> 
> I really hope it was hinted to what they're planning to do in the next chapter. I had a scene planned where they just laid everything out, but it felt like a lot of reiterating, so the little conversations in each scene of this chapter SHOULD be enough to tell you guys what's going on...But if you still have questions (that won't be answered within the next chapter or so), I'll be MORE THAN HAPPY TO ANSWER THEM!!! I don't want to give anything away, but the next chapter is my FAVORITE of any chapter I've written so far in this series. NO JOKE. IT'S A GOOD ONE. I'M JUST SAYING.
> 
> See you all soon!!!!!!


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